Return Engagement
by Misophonia
Summary: Moriarty's back and, with his return, comes a danger to those closest to Sherlock Holmes. This time, that includes Molly Hooper. Sherlock proposes allowing Mycroft to secret Molly away to a safehouse until the danger has passed. Molly, however, comes up with a better plan. Here's hoping she has the gumption it takes to see it through.
1. Sherlock Denied

_**Return Engagement**_

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**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**Sherlock**_** or any of its varied characters. **_**Sherlock **_**is a copyright of Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss. I am merely taking their characters out for a walk on the wild side. **

**A/N: This story has spoilers for Series 3 and is written with the understanding that the reader is familiar with all three of those episodes. You have been warned.**

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**Chapter One: Sherlock Denied**

It shouldn't have surprised Molly Hooper when Sherlock Holmes strolled into her morgue. After all, he was a consulting detective who solved complicated murders and regularly experimented on human remains in his spare time. Morgues were simply a part of his life, and, as such, he had been coming into hers for many years now. However, as he'd informed her just yesterday that he would be leaving London for what he termed as his "foreseeable future," she believed she had a right to be a bit shocked by his presence.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock?" she stammered helplessly. "What are you doing here? Weren't you leaving? You sent me a t-t-text—"

He gave her a condescending stare that did nothing but accentuate his astonishingly good looks and said, "Really, Molly, stuttering in my presence? I'd hoped we were quite beyond that unfortunate phase in our relationship."

She looked away, trying to get a hold of herself. One glance from him had all but reduced her to a puddle of goo. Honestly, she'd hoped she was beyond this phase as well. Taking a deep breath, she determinedly straightened her shoulders and prepared to ignore the fact that he'd just used of the words "our relationship" when speaking to her. It was meant only in a colleague sense; she knew that.

Besides, he was right. She had managed to find even footing with him at last and she refused to budge from that. Looking up again, she stared at him head on. "You said yesterday that you were leaving today. You sent a text. I still have it. Did I misunderstand?"

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a devilish grin, which he quickly tempered—like he had a private joke he didn't wish to divulge. "No," he said, walking around her and approaching the slab she'd been completing a post-mortem on a Mr. Jonas Conners only moments before.

_No, he's not leaving or no, I didn't misunderstand?_ Molly sighed as her frustration built. He'd been arrested and held for murdering that Magnussen fellow. It was all very hush-hush and quickly dealt with, but John had filled her in. But, if that was so, how was Sherlock free and here now? It made no sense—even if he was Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sometimes, she wasn't sure what it was about that man she liked so much. He could anger her like no other. Then again, when it came to Sherlock, many people could claim that. She would simply have to be a little more patient—wait like she always did where he was concerned.

Molly moved to plant herself on the opposite side of the autopsy table. She'd learned physical distance was key to maintaining a semblance of control in times like this.

Peering down at the body a moment, he lifted his head and pronounced, "Heart attack."

"Directly correlated to smoking," she quipped, with a mild glare shot in his direction to let him know she'd smelled the lingering scent of tobacco clinging to him when he'd walked past.

There was flash of something across his face, but it passed too quickly for her to discern what it meant. She used the pause in conversation to ask the question she'd been considering since he walked in.

"Is it because of Moriarty? The reason you didn't have to leave?"

He gave a stiff nod. "Very good, Molly."

"Is he really back?"

"I don't know. It's possible."

"How? You said he shot himself in the head. You saw it."

"Indeed. However, two years ago John could have told you he saw me fall to my death from this building's very roof." He leaned in across the table towards her. "But we know otherwise, don't we?"

Molly bit back the well of emotion his words caused within her. Not only because it brought to mind the two very morose years she'd suffered with his absence, but because it reminded her that there had been a time when the mighty Sherlock Holmes had desperately needed her. No one else. _Her_. Her role in the faking of his death had been pivotal—he'd said so before himself. She'd known it, of course; but having him acknowledge it like he had meant more than he could ever know, more than she'd ever admit to anyone—even him.

"What do you need?"

He seemed startled. She wasn't sure if it was because those were the same words she'd used with him that night so long ago or because what her use of those words meant in today's context. Yet, as it was something that didn't happen very often, she took a moment to savor the feeling, like it was a victory. She'd never be as brilliant as him or as fiercely brave as John or as respectable as Lystrade or as stunning and mysterious as that woman Sherlock favored, but she liked the idea that she could make an impression with the consulting detective just the same.

He recovered quickly. "Mycroft is going to have you taken to a secure location until this is over. In the meantime—"

"No."

Sherlock was startled again. This time she knew why. His eyes narrowed. "No?"

It took every bit of gumption she had to maintain his stare. "No."

"Don't be ridiculous. Moriarty is a demented killer who will stop at nothing to get to me."

"Exactly. As long as he's free, innocent people will be hurt. I want to help. I can't do that if Mycroft has me stored in a safe house somewhere in the country. Besides, I refuse to be a prisoner. I've done nothing wrong."

"You helped _me_. That makes you a target."

"John'll be the target. He's the one who counts."

"We've been over this before," he grumbled. "_You_ count, Molly. You've always counted. This time, however, Moriarty knows it."

She rolled her eyes. Sometimes, he truly was obtuse. Time to make her point in a more drastic manner. "Do you love me?"

For the third time in twenty minutes, she had the pleasure of seeing the usually unflappable Sherlock Holmes startled. This time, with the way he was gulping and seemingly unable to utter nothing more than series of strangled grunts, she was also fairly sure he'd swallowed his tongue. It would have been funny had it not proven without a shadow of a doubt that the consulting detective harbored no such sentimental feelings for her. That knowledge stung a bit, but not as much as it would have in the past.

"Exactly my point. But you _do_ love John."

He got ahold of himself enough to arch a haughty brow at her. "He's married and, by the way, _not_ gay."

She arched a brow back at him. "You're the one who assumed I meant romantic love. I did not. In terms of people you truly care about, however, John is your lynch pin. Anyone with half a brain knows that. You told me once that Moriarty threatened to 'burn the heart out of you.' If he's back, if this is him, it's John he'll come after. John's death would be key to your undoing. Not mine."

"I'd rather not have either of your deaths on my conscience, if you don't mind."

"You're a sociopath. Sociopaths don't have consciences, remember?"

His mouth quirked briefly with a smile before smoothing out into his typical bored sneer. "Mycroft won't take no for an answer."

"Are you sending John away?"

"No."

"Then I'm not going either."

He sighed. "It's not the same."

"Why? Because John is a man?"

"What? No!"

"Because he was a former soldier? That hasn't stopped him from being kidnapped and nearly killed on more than one occasion from being around you."

"That isn't it either. Although we both know John is able to handle himself with a gun."

"So can I."

His eyes narrowed and scanned over her body as he took this information in. No doubt, he was trying to find something to substantiate or deny her claims. After about two seconds, he said, "Target shooting on the weekends is not the same as protecting yourself in the middle of danger."

She hated how he could even know that based on a cursory inspection. Worse, she hated how much his knowing that after a cursory inspection turned her on. It was decidedly inconvenient at a time like this.

"If it's not that, then why not?" she asked, deciding to push.

He paused, as if searching for a suitable answer.

"Well?" she prodded.

"John has Mary," he blurted.

That stopped Molly short. "She's eight-months' pregnant. How is that going to keep him safe from Moriarty? If anything, that makes John even more of a liability."

There was another flash of emotion across his face. She was able to read frustration, anger, and a slight bit of unease before his customary mask of indifference returned to the surface. Then, he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. From the way he clasped his hands behind his back and began to walk around the table towards her, she knew what was coming. The game was afoot. The sincere-looking smile softening his features as he closed in on her confirmed her suspicions. Sherlock was intent on getting his way no matter how he needed to do that.

Bracing for the full impact of his significant charm and acting prowess, Molly hated herself for her weakness for him. What good did it do to know he was manipulating her if she always gave in anyway?

"Molly," he started off pleasantly, gazing at her as if she were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. "Your safety is my primary concern."

He shouldn't have started off with a lie. Usually, he knew better than that. In this case, Molly counted it as a stroke of luck because it made her just angry enough to withstand the rest of his deluge of charm.

"I can't focus on bringing Moriarty to his knees if I'm worried about what is happening to you." He moved in for the kill, leaning in with that puppy dog look of his. "Will you do this for me?" He gave a slow blink, widening his eyes ever so slightly. "Please?"

"No."

That one word and everything dropped. His expression flattened, he moved back, and the arms came from behind his back to cross in front of his chest. She would have sighed in relief, but she didn't want to give away that she knew what he was about. Sherlock already knew too much about her and her thoughts as it was.

"I don't have to ask your permission, you know. One phone call, and you'll be gone."

"Sherlock Holmes, threaten me again and the next body part I hand you will be your own."

That left him stumped, but not for long. "What about Meena? Do you really want to put her life in danger because of your recklessness?"

He had her there and, from the smirk on his face, he knew it. She didn't bother to ask how he knew she was living with her best friend—had been ever since she'd ended it with Tom and moved out of the joint flat they'd found.

"There, now," he said, popping the collar on his coat as he did whenever he got ready to sweep from a room.

Honestly, it always reminded her of a little boy flapping his play cape behind him when he did that. Sherlock Holmes had a superhero complex. Not that she ever planned to share that particular theory with him.

"Glad we could see eye to eye on this, Molly. If you'd like, I can have Mycroft have your friend taken with you. It'll give you some company while you're away." With a regal nod, he turned away and headed for the door.

Her brain scrambled for ideas. Only one crazy one came to mind. He'd never agree to that. She knew it. In fact, she didn't agree with it. It was the most ridiculous idea ever.

In the end, it was that coupled with the fact that he was leaving that had her blurting it out.

He stopped short and flipped about. She noticed his mobile was already put to his ear. "Call you back," he barked into the phone before closing the distance between he and Molly. "What was that?"

"I could live with you."

"Live … with me? You?"

Any meager hope that had been holding on in her heart that the man in front of her harbored any kind of romantic notions towards her was crashed like a ship against rocks in a storm. Still, this was about her freedom, not him. He'd never agree to this, but he also wouldn't be sending her packing to the nearest no man's land either. That was a win enough for her.

His eyes narrowed, their ethereal glow taking her in in a way that always left her feeling naked. Once, just once, she'd like to do that to him. Let him know how it felt.

"You don't mean that," he finally pronounced.

She gave a half-hearted shrug. "I can stay in John's old room. Mycroft has your flat under surveillance. You've complained about that to me more than once. Seems like it would be the safest place for me to be while still being able to maintain a semblance of my life. It's not ideal, but it could work."

"Molly." He took a step towards her. "I'm married to my work. Always will be."

Something about him telling her that felt like a slap in the face. As if she didn't know exactly how much he didn't return her feelings. As if she needed the reminder. As if she didn't see it in every conversation they had, in every look he didn't return, in every opportunity he had had all these years that he'd never taken. She'd made her peace with the fact that Sherlock would never love her. She'd been determined to move on. In the two years he'd been gone, she'd worked hard to do just that. In her relationship with Tom, she'd thought she'd succeeded. Its demise a few short weeks ago, however, said otherwise.

She hated that the most. How unfair was this? How long would she be tortured this way? At what point would she fall out of love with this man? Maybe living with him, seeing him day in and day out would be the key to finally breaking that particular spell. At this point, she would do anything.

So, with this in mind, she cocked her chin up at him and said, "Me, too."

"You're married to your work?" he asked in disbelief.

"Absolutely. Do you have a problem with that?"

He slowly shook his head, still gazing at her uncertainly.

"Then we have a deal, don't we?"

He nodded.

"Good," she said. "I'll move in tomorrow. You can go now. I have work to finish." She turned her back on him for good measure. Something in the rude gesture left her feeling surprisingly good.

As she removed Mr. Conner's heart and set about weighing it. She could still feel Sherlock's presence in the room. Lord only knew what he was thinking. No doubt, he was studying her and trying to figure out when she'd gone certifiable. She told herself she didn't care, but she did. It was only when he finally swept from the room and she was left alone that she allowed what she'd just agreed to do to really sink it. Then, of course, the panic swiftly followed.

"Dear Lord, what on earth have I done?"

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**A/N: Do not get all kinds of excited about this. I am very disappointed in myself for feeding my obsession with Sherlolly this way, but it can't be helped. This story is toiling in my mind and begging to be told. I will warn you that the updates on this will be prolonged as I am trying desperately to finish another story first. It has the bulk of my attention and will remain so until it's finished.**

**In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this and will hang on to what will likely be a wild ride into Sherlolly sentiment. I will also warn you that I have read very little of the Arthur Conan Doyle books. I do know the canon of the show and will try to keep it to that, but this story is never going to be as good as anything the spectacular Moffat and Gatiss could come up with. Moreover, I don't particularly like writing thrilling action sequences and murder plots; so forgive me for any less-than-stellar stuff in that area I happen to include here.**


	2. No Shit, Sherlock

**Chapter Two: No Shit, Sherlock**

He never should have let her slap him.

Looking back, Sherlock knew this must have been where he'd gone wrong with Molly Hooper. One innocent visit to a drug den in the name of a case, and he'd lost his tightly-held control in their interactions. The second her hand struck his cheek something between them changed. A power shifted. The enigmatic persona in which he typically cloaked himself was stripped away. He'd tried to hold tight to it, but she only struck him again and again until he was reduced to little more than a pathetic junkie.

In those minutes, the others in the room faded away. There was nothing but him and one furious pathologist. Molly could see him, the failings, the loneliness, the lies and the fears. Not all of them, of course, but certainly more than suited his comfort level. The intimacy of the moment was startling. Worse, instead of turning a blind eye, turning her back on him, or even defending him in that nurturing way of hers, she'd gotten in his face, reprimanded him with the shrill tone he'd never before heard her use, and demanded he apologize.

The little kitten had transformed into a roaring lioness.

He'd hit her back. Not physically, of course. No, physical violence was always a last resort. There were easier, less messy ways to lay someone low. One sweeping glance was all it would take to determine weaknesses and a point of attack. A few, rapid-fire deductions provided deadlier cuts than the sharpest of daggers. This was something he'd learned long ago, a lesson he'd never forgotten. His weapon of choice, if you will.

Sherlock hadn't needed a sweeping glance to pinpoint Molly's weakness. No, he'd noticed the lack of a certain ring on her hand the second they'd stepped inside the lab. The dark circles under her eyes denoting a lack of sleep and the framed picture of her fiancé missing from her desk filled in the rest.

So, when she finished her attack, he commenced with his own.

This proved to be the beginning of the end. At his scathing words, the Molly Hooper of old would have dropped her head and scurried from the room for a nice cry in the nearest loo. But not this time. No, this time, she'd known exactly what he was about. She never broke his gaze. In anything, she cocked up her chin and called him out.

"Stop it," she'd said. "Just stop it."

_Good for you, Molly Hooper._ He'd often wondered what would have happened if John hadn't intervened in that moment and turned his attention. Would she have hit him again? Would he have let her? Moreover, why had he allowed her strike him in the first place? Even as high as he was, his reflexes weren't that compromised. He could have easily dodged her blows.

_Then, why didn't you?_ Did it perhaps have something to do with the inordinate amount of pride he'd felt for her in that moment? He ignored the preposterous turn of his thoughts because he already knew the answer. He'd deserved her reprimands and the sting her blows had wrought.

_How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with! And how dare you betray the love of your friends!_

With those words, she'd cut him to the quick worse than he'd ever done to anyone. It was the fear in her tone, in her eyes that did him in. She was scared, genuinely scared for him. And, in that moment, he knew she loved him—truly loved him. Not that nonsensical notion of love and romance people tried to talk themselves into feeling that could never be realistically maintained. No, she was actually in love with him. _All_ of him. Not just the persona he'd carefully cultivated over the years. Not just his brilliance. Not just his socially-coveted Patrician features, eyes and height people talked about all the time. No, Molly loved him in spite of her fear, in spite of his reckless actions, and often churlish behavior, and in spite of numerous times he'd tried to prove to her that he could never love her back. Not like that. Never like that.

Sherlock hadn't wanted that knowledge, hadn't wanted that particular emotion from her or anyone. There was so much that came with it. Obligations, rules, priorities, compromises, guilt, sentiment—all preoccupations wrapped up in an emotion he couldn't even begin to process, much less feel. He'd told people all his life that romantic relationships weren't his area. He'd meant it. Why did no one ever believe him? He'd recognized his limitations early on. Why was acknowledging and accepting those limitations a bad thing? He had an intelligence that few could eclipse or even fully understand. He used this power for good—most of the time. But this "beautiful gift"—to use Molly's words—came with a price, one he was more than willing to pay. Sentiment and all the rest that went with being in love would only inhibit and weaken him. What good was he to anyone then?

He'd hoped Molly would move past her unfortunate regard for him with that new fellow of hers. The guy was a complete moron, of course, but one couldn't have anything. But she hadn't moved on and from the second she'd nearly taken the consulting detective's head off his shoulders, he knew she never would.

"Sherlock, I'm popping out to the shops. We need a few things."

And now there was this. Molly Hooper was his new flatmate. A complication to be sure. He'd deliberately limited their contact after the slapping incident. He hadn't even allowed her to visit him when he'd been in hospital, even though John said she'd come by fairly regularly. Moreover, when he'd been ready to leave on his ridiculous M.I.6 suicide mission—his government-sanctioned punishment for killing the repellent Charles Augustus Magnussen—he'd given her nothing more than a one-line text message as a final goodbye.

How had things gotten so out of hand? He should never have come to see Molly after he'd been freed. He still hadn't managed to pin down why he hadn't simply allowed Mycroft to fetch her. It was certainly the logical answer. She would be safe and out of the way. The best of everything in one, fail swoop.

Yet, he'd gone against reason and visited her and, somehow, she went from being the woman from whom he must keep his distance to the woman who was sharing his bathroom.

This particular woman was proving to be more troublesome than _the_ woman ever was.

"I know we're out of milk, sugar, eggs, and bread. Was there anything else?" Molly peered down at the list she was holding. It was the same one she'd carefully made out only this morning on pink, flowery stationary and left attached to the fridge by a giant kitty magnet that read "Hang In There." "Oh, shampoo!" she said, darting into the bathroom.

Kitty magnets? This is what he was reduced to? Honestly, having that blasted girly ornament put on display in his kitchen was almost worse than Molly being in love with him. Then, there were the distinctly feminine undergarments she washed out and left hanging in their shared bathroom. They shouldn't have bothered him. It wasn't like they were lacy, black numbers or anything with an electric purple animal print like Janine had seemed to favor. No, these were sensible cotton pants in spring pastels and cream-colored bras with petite pink bows sewn into the very middle.

Molly, it seemed, dressed like a little girl even when it came to her underwear. He wasn't sure if that was pathetic or endearing, and he refused to mull on it for too long for fear of what the answer might actually be. No, he did what any logical man would do when faced with such an issue. He developed a plan and went about putting it into action. The problem was it didn't exactly work. Instead, it only served to highlight his lack of control in dealing with the infatuated pathologist.

"I play the violin at all hours, Molly. It helps me think."

"I find classical music soothing. The flute is my favorite instrument, but the violin is nice as well."

"I often get bored. One time, I got so bored I shot holes in the living room wall."

A small smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "I'm sure the wall had it coming."

He'd frowned then. Was that a joke? Was she attempting to inject humor into a situation where trepidation was clearly warranted? What was wrong with her? John, as he remembered, had been particularly riled about that incident. Likewise, Mrs. Hudson took three-times his normal amount of rent for the next month in order to cover the damage. (Even though a bomb detonated from next door three minutes later had done far more damage than he ever had.)

"John often complained about his lack of privacy while living here. I've been known to go through personal belongings without permission or just barge into a room without knocking."

She'd shrugged. "You already rifled through my personal belongings when you stayed with me after faking your death, remember? This is your flat, Sherlock. Go wherever you like. If you see me naked, I won't mind."

That left him completely stumped until he considered that she'd lived on her own before and had a strange predilection to mentally-disturbed men—especially the high functioning ones. Evidently he was going about this the wrong way.

He retreated to the comfort of his mind palace to devise a new plan. Unfortunately, the second one seemed to fail more dismally than the first. Operation: Ignore Molly was only in its first hours of employ when he realized that.

While his ability to withdraw mentally had often driven John to distraction, it seemed to calm Molly. In fact, he came out of his thoughts to see how much his ignoring her was hurting her feelings, only to find her sitting beside him on the couch, reading. How had she gotten there? Didn't she realize he didn't like people near him when he thought? She wasn't touching him. There was that, at least. In fact, she'd planted herself on the opposite side of the sofa, curled her feet up under her bottom, and seemed engrossed in some kind of vapid science fiction novel. If he didn't know better, he would have thought _she_ was ignoring _him_. Or, at the very least, enjoying the peace and quiet.

"You believe in zombies?" he asked, unable to not notice the abundance of the walking undead wielding swords pictured on the cover. _Absurd._

She didn't respond. Instead, she gave a mild chuckle over something she read, turned the page, and settled back against the cushions with a soft, contented little sigh that left a strangely heady feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"Molly?"

"Mmm?"

Did she look at him when she finally deemed to answer? No, she just kept staring at her book with that silly, bemused expression on her face. She obviously lacked common decency. That galled him more than anything else. He knew Molly was, at times, more socially awkward than he usually was, but surely she knew better than this? It was rud, plain and simple.

"As a highly educated health professional, you would do better to spend your time reading medical journals than drivel written about creatures that in no way could logically exist, much less utilize Japanese samurai swords. Why not use a gun? It's certainly more efficient. For that matter, why use a weapon at all? Isn't the point of being a zombie to subdue a live human so you can consume their brains fresh? Is that why they use the swords? Is it like a transportable can opener for the skull?"

"Would you like to read the book when I'm finished?"

"What? No! Why would you ever think that?"

"It's just … you seem to have a lot of questions … about the plot."

It wasn't just her quietly-voiced reply that left him frustrated. It was also the fact that she delivered it looking him straight in the face, her brown eyes filled with mirth. _Now she's mocking me?_

No, the second plan was a dismal failure all right. Unfortunately, his experiments littering the kitchen, his general lack of concern in the areas of household cleaning, and all the other little things that used to reduce John Watson to a fount of righteous indignation seemed to have no effect on Molly Hooper at all. Even the oozing foot he'd placed deliberately next to her yogurt in the fridge had gotten little reaction. She'd wrapped the decomposing limb in cling film and placed it in the bottom refrigerator bin, which she'd labeled "Medical Waste." Moreover, she refused to give him any additional specimens to experiment on until he promised to keep all items to the bin. It was humiliating, that.

So, after seven days of careful planning, brilliant execution, and abysmal failure, Sherlock Holmes was feeling desperate. Something had to be done and soon. Molly's love for him was giving her inordinate amounts of tolerance where he was concerned, and it needed to cease. She must be made to come to her senses and agree to Mycroft taking her away. Far away. Immediately. For her safety, of course. Thus, there really was only one thing to be done.

"Ready to go?"

He looked up, more relieved than he would have ever admitted out loud. "Oh, John. There you are. Where have you been?"

"You texted me an hour ago."

"Exactly."

"You do realize I live outside of London now? You've been to the house several times."

"Irrelevant." His eyes swept over his best friend. "You had time to stop for coffee, one—no two—donuts and to pick up a prescription for Mary. Really, you need to better sort out your priorities. Cases wait for no man."

"How in the world did you know about the prescription? I took it back to her before I came here. You know what? I don't want to know. I'm going to ignore all of that and ask the question you still haven't answered. Are you ready to go?"

"Go where?"

John sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "The case. Remember? Lestrade seemed to think it rated an eight."

He waved this off. "Barely a six. Butcher did it. Found out his wife was sleeping with the delivery boy. Lestrade sent over pictures of the crime scene. I didn't even need to leave the flat."

"Then why didn't you text me and let me know not to come? I wouldn't have driven all the way out here if—"

"Sherlock, it looks like you're out of toothpaste as well. I've added that to the list. Was there anything else? Oh, hello, John. I didn't know you were here."

"Hello, Molly," John said, distractedly, keeping a glare on the target of his anger. "Sherlock, you arse, surely you realize my wife is bare weeks from her due date. I can't believe you …"

Sherlock made it to eleven seconds before John put it all together. That was a good eight seconds longer than it should have taken him. Apparently, domestic felicity was making the doctor soft.

"Molly? Wh-what are you doing here?"

She gave a jittery nod and smiled. "I live here now. You know, until Moriarty is dealt with. Sherlock and I agreed it would be best."

John swung around to stare at his friend. "Really? You're living here … together … alone?"

Sherlock remained mute and waited, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. _Any minute now_ …

"Well, I'm in your old bedroom, of course, but yes." Molly gave an awkward laugh. "If you'll excuse me, I'm heading out. Give my love to Mary. I'm told the last month of pregnancy can be the worst. Swollen ankles, the incessant need to wee, constipation—" She broke off, bit her lip, and blushed. "See you later."

She turned to leave, but stopped when her name was called.

"Yes, Sherlock?" she asked.

"You forgot your purse."

The blood infused in her face brightened. "Right," she began to look around.

"Your bedroom."

"Oh, yeah. Right," she said, before rushing off to retrieve the article.

John wasted no time when she'd gone. "You can't be serious. She just got out of a relationship where she was trying to talk herself into marrying your lookalike, she's desperately in love with you, and Moriarty is looking to kill you at any moment and you think allowing Molly to live with you is a good idea?"

"I don't see the problem."

"You don't see the—Sherlock, even you can't be this bloody obtuse. Why didn't you just take her to Mycroft? She'd be safe, if that's what you're worried about."

"She refused to go."

"She refused to go?" John's eyes widened in surprise. "And you just let her refuse?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and stared up at his friend. "What would you have had me do? Toss her over my shoulder and carry her out to Mycroft? Really, John? Surely such a stereotypical caveman-like reaction would have played right into increasing this 'desperate love' she has for me?"

"One phone call to Mycroft was all it would have taken. He has people who specialize in this."

He gave another wave. "I avoid Mycroft as often as I can. You know this."

"Avoid Mycr—This is the woman who saved your miserable hide by helping you fake your death. Or did you forget that? Without her, you'd have been well and truly stuck. And this is how you repay her?"

He rolled his eyes. John was overreacting. _Typical._ "I've already told you. There were thirteen possible scenarios when I went out onto that roof with Moriarty. Molly figured into only two of those scenarios and, therefore, I could have—"

"I'm going to talk some sense into her if you won't." John warned, his voice rising with every passing minute. Soon, he'd be yelling.

_As expected_, Sherlock thought. He watched happily as his friend turned on heel, intent on rushing the stairs, finding Molly Hooper and—

"Hold on." John paused and flipped back around, his face scrunched in concentration. He narrowed his gaze at Sherlock before scanning the room. Something seemed to occur to him as his expression changed to a scowl.

_Not expected_, Sherlock thought. "Yes?" he asked, not bothering to withhold the frustration from his tone.

"That's why you called me here. You want me to do your dirty work for you."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Found it!" Molly said, coming back into the room with a rush. "See you boys later. Sherlock, are they still outside?"

He rose from his seat, strolled over to the window, and briefly peered out. "Yes, they'll spot you the second you hit the sidewalk."

She nodded and, with a wave, hurried out the door.

"_They_? Someone is following her, and you're not bothered?"

"Mycroft's men," he explained, reclaiming his seat. "They follow wherever she goes. At a covert distance, of course. We don't want make it obvious that she has protection in case Moriarty is watching. But they would be able to intervene if anyone tried anything. They follow Mrs. Hudson, too." He grinned. "They've tried to follow me on numerous occasions, but often find themselves unable to keep up."

John shook his head. Then, something else seemed to occur to him. "My God! That's how you knew about the prescription for Mary. They're following me as well, aren't they?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He let his puerile chuckle of glee speak for him.

"You're an arse."

"So you have pointed out on several occasions. You should invest in a thesaurus if you are going to continue to try to insult me."

The spreading smirk on his friend's face should have worried Sherlock, but he was having too much fun in the moment to deduce the source.

"What?" he asked, finding his own mirth fading under this latest development.

"I'm going home."

"Why bother? Mary isn't in labor, you're already here, and a client is bound to show up with something interesting sooner or later. We can even play Cluedo, if you like."

The smirk morphed into a devious grin. "Oh, no, Sherlock Holmes. Your chickens have finally come home to roost and you're going to deal with them all on your own."

"What _are _you talking about?"

"Molly Hooper. You're trying to keep me here until she returns so I'll talk her into moving out and going with Mycroft." He laughed. "Well, it isn't happening, mate. You've been manipulating and stringing that girl along for years. Deal with it yourself."

"I take offense to that. I have never strung Molly along. That would imply I have allowed her to think that I will one day return her feelings, which we both know I have never done. Furthermore, I have never manipulated her."

"Bollocks. She says no to you, and you turn on the charm. She cites a rule she can't break, and you start talking about how the color of her jumper brings out the gold flecks in her eyes."

"It wasn't a lie. It did bring out the gold in her eyes." _Doesn't John know anything?_ "You're making it sound like I lied to her. I've never lied to her."

"Then don't lie to her now. Tell her the truth. Surely she understands the level of danger she's in?"

He bristled and gritted his teeth. "I told you. I tried that."

"And?"

He swallowed … hard. "She said no."

"And you didn't try to manipulate her into agreeing?"

"You can't admonish me for that and then advise me to do it in the same argument."

John stared at him, long and hard. "Good God!" He let out a loud snort of laughter that filled the whole flat. "You did, didn't you? But she's grown immune, hasn't she? She finally withstood the Holmesian charm and somehow managed to manipulate _you_ into letting her live here. Good show, Molly!"

"Whose side are you on?"

"Hers. As I've said before, you're an arse."

"I'm also your best friend."

He shrugged. "Doesn't make you any less of an arse. Now, if you'll excuse me, it's my day off and I have a wife at home who desperately needs her feet rubbed."

Yet another brilliant plan foiled by Molly Hooper. It wasn't fair. "If Mary were here, she'd help me," he grumbled.

"No," John said, "she wouldn't."

"Really? And why is that?"

His former best friend walked towards the door, waiting until he was almost to the steps before he bothered to reply. "Because she thinks you and Molly are made for each other."


	3. Always Something

**Chapter Three: Always Something**

"You're not serious."

Molly smiled tightly as she watched Meena all but bounce in the seat across from her. Usually, she found her friend's rampant energy and over-the-top sense of humor endearing, but, tonight, it annoyed her. There were post-mortems to be done, and here she was wasting her time. "I am serious."

"What? Are you a nun? You've been living with the man for three weeks."

"Yes."

Meena leaned across the table as far as she could, her voice dipping to confidential whisper. "And nothing's happened?"

"Nothing's happened."

"How can you stand it? If I were in your place, I'd throw Sherlock Holmes down on the nearest hard surface and shag his brains out."

The mere image of the tall, leggy blonde attempting to do that as well as Sherlock's accompanying appalled reaction had Molly rolling her eyes. "You're being silly."

Meena, the only friend she had to make the transition from uni to adult life, raised an eyebrow at this. "Yeah, me and the rest of his legion of fans. I used to think all those women screaming their lungs out over a bloke they'd never met were mad. It's not like he famous for playing Dr. Who or James Bond or anything. Gorgeous, to be sure, but a minor celebrity at best." She shook her head. "Still, to have my dearest friend living with the demigod she fancies and doing nothing about it … It's the chance of a lifetime, and you're wasting it." She gave a playful wink. "Live a little for both of us and just shag the man."

_I'd have to tie him down first_, Molly thought grimly. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Then invite me over so I can have a go."

Molly knew her friend was jesting, but the idea that she might be even a little bit serious annoyed her more than she was willing to admit. After all, Meena was well aware of Molly's feelings for the demigod in question. "Believe me. One deduction from Sherlock, and the last thing you'd want to do is shag him."

"Some women like a man to play hard to get."

"He's not playing. And he can be mean when he wants to be."

"He's not mean to you, though, is he? That's telling."

Not interested in going down that particular conversational alley, Molly busied herself raking her fork through the pasta she'd purchased for lunch. So far, she'd done little more than separate it into its base parts. There was a bed of noodles surrounded by little hills of tomatoes, peppers, and chicken. The tomatoes were by far the biggest pile. She made a mental note of that and kept at it.

"Come on," Meena implored. "You used to love talking about him."

As there was no adequate reply to that, Molly kept her attention and eyes on the plate before her. She made a fourth pile for onions, not caring that she probably looked like a fool doing so. This dissection and analysis was by far healthier for her than the one Meena was attempting.

"Molls, you said he's been better with you since he came back from the dead. He treats you with more respect. You two actually have real conversations about things other than dead bodies. He even took you out with him on a few cases." Meena released a dreamy sigh. "Sounds like progress to me."

_Yes_, Molly thought, _before everything went straight to Hell_. Not that she had mentioned Sherlock's brief foray into a drug den to Meena or her violent reaction when he tested positive for heroin. Or, for that matter, any of the other myriad of shocking things Sherlock had either done or had done to him in the intervening months. Getting high, getting shot, escaping from hospital, nearly dying and coming back, shooting Magnussen and leaving London only to not leave after all. Honestly, the man's life often ran like _EastEnders_. Still, it was his life and some things were better left private.

"Is it Tom? I thought you were glad you broke it off with him."

"I am. It was the right thing to do."

"Then what's the problem? You know what they say. The best way to get over an old man is to get under a new one! And you can't worry that Sherlock's just a rebound fellow because you liked him even before you met Tom."

_If that was supposed to make me feel better, you should try harder, Meena._ But she kept that thought to herself. No need to hurt anyone's feelings. "Sherlock doesn't do relationships, and I don't do one-night stands—especially with a flatmate. Now do you understand?" _There. A nice, reasonable answer to end this discussion once and for all._

"Of course he does relationships. Remember? He had the torrid affair with that girl. It was all over the papers. He's got quite a kinky side apparently. What was the girlfriend's name? Jessica? Jenny?"

"Janine," Molly ground out, returning her attention to sorting the items on her plate. She now added counting to the sorting. Best to keep her mind occupied on things other than the sordid stories reported in the tabloids.

"Hit a sore spot, did I?"

Unable to concentrate anymore, Molly threw her fork down and pasted on a smile. "So, how's life? You still seeing Carter?"

Meena's eyes narrowed as if she were studying her. "C'mon, Molls. Talk to me. We don't do that anymore. Not since you moved in with the demigod. You won't let me come round, you barely ring me—even though I've rang you again and again—and you only agreed to have meet me because I guilted you into it. You even made me come to Bart's to see you even though you know how much this place depresses me." She looked around the stark cafeteria they were currently inhabiting and gave a delicate shudder. "It's not even proper time for eating. It's nearly half eleven at night. I'll never know how you stand working here. Not an ounce of cheer to be found anywhere. And the hours. Ghastly!"

"I like my job. We've been over this. And, as far as why I haven't rung you back, it's because I've been busy." Molly knew it wasn't the best excuse in the world. It wasn't even the truth, but telling Meena the truth would only lead to more questions, questions Molly didn't want to think about much less answer.

"You never used to be too busy for me. I used to be the busy one. What's happened to us? Now you're living with the posh detective, and I'm stuck with …" She paled a bit and looked away. "Well, it doesn't matter."

Molly immediately felt guilty. She hadn't been holding up her side of the friendship for a while. There were clearly things going on with Meena, things she needed to talk through. "Tell me about Carter," she urged. "Last time we chatted, you said things were getting serious. Any news?"

Her friend kept staring before releasing a heavy sigh. "Fine." She jerked back from the table and settled against her chair, arms crossed over the heaving bosom Molly had envied on more than one occasion. "It's fine. No news, yet. He wanted to take me to the pub earlier to watch a football match on the telly with his friends. But, you know how I am. Always have to keep the men dangling." She laughed at her little joke. "Besides, I wanted to spend some time with you. And now here I am, wasting a perfectly good shagging night trying to get my best friend to talk to me."

"I'm sorry. There's just nothing to say about—" Molly stopped when her phone chimed in her pocket. Reaching into her lab coat, she read the text she'd just been sent. _Really? Now?_ She hated the delicious zing of excitement that hit her and put the mobile away. "I have to go."

"What? Now? You only just got here. Surely they let you take longer than a twenty-minute meal break."

"I have work piling up."

"You autopsy dead people. I think they can wait."

Molly's phone chimed again. She pulled it out again to read the message, already aware of who was sending it and what it said. "I'm sorry. I do need to dash. Can we perhaps reschedule? We can go out if you like. You know, when the sun's up and all. We'll have hours and hours to spend talking."

"It's him, isn't it?"

Her head popped up from the mobile. "Huh?"

"The _demigod_ sent you a message."

"Wh-why would you think that?" Molly asked, hating how her cheeks were heating with embarrassment.

"You went from being all sullen and morose to grinning like an idiot in three seconds, all because you got a text. You only do that for _him_."

_Yet another failing I need to work on_, Molly thought.

"I'm right then, aren't I?" Meena asked, with an excited clap. "It was him."

The mobile chimed a third time, the noise sounding almost as impatient as the person sending the message probably was. "Yes. He's waiting. It's a case." Molly got to her feet, shoving her seat back with the backs of her calves. "I'll ring you soon. I promise."

Meena grabbed her purse and rose too. "I'm coming with you."

"What? No!"

"And miss a chance like this? I want to meet the famous detective. Face-to-face."

"Why?"

Tossing her hair behind her shoulder, Meena said, "I need to decide if he's good enough for you or if he's a certifiable weirdo. Can only do that in person."

Molly could just imagine how that particular meeting would play out. Meena would flirt and simper—her usual way of wrapping all men around her little finger. Sherlock, revolted, would take one look at her, make a few crushing deductions, and the fireworks would go from there. _Nope. Not happening._

"I can't. Rules. Visitors aren't allowed in the morgue without authorization."

"Sherlock goes in there all the time."

"He has authorization. He works with the Yard, remember?"

"You're being—" Meena broke off and looked up, her mouth falling open in stunned wonder.

Molly knew that look._ No, not now._

"There you are."

The deep baritone sounded behind, confirming that the sinking sensation in Molly's stomach wasn't an overreaction. She closed her eyes and collapsed back into her seat in defeat.

_Oh, bugger._

—**RE—**

Sherlock's eyes swept over the pair of them. "Since you're obviously done with your meal, we can be on our way." He turned abruptly and started to walk off to encourage her to move. Time was of the essence. "Come along, Molly."

"Wait!"

He flipped back around. Molly's dining companion had spoken. The blonde was currently eyeing him in the way that women—and more than a few men—did which often made him uncomfortable. _Good Lord. _There was a case waiting. Tests to be run. Didn't Molly understand this? Hadn't she gotten his texts? She hadn't responded, but then again, he hadn't needed her to. What he needed was his pathologist on her feet and following him to her lab, but all she seemed willing to do was sit there with her face buried in her palm. _What is that about?_

"You're Sherlock Holmes."

His gaze darted back to the companion. "You're Meena Chambers, and she is Molly Hooper. Now that we've all played roll call, Molly and I have work to do. Good evening." He reached down and gave Molly a slight nudge on her shoulder with his finger. "Let's go."

Not the least bit offended by his dismissive manner, the companion smiled widely, one hand reaching up to grab a lock of her hair in order to twist it around her finger, which was painted the most alarming shade of red with delicate, gold filigree on the top. She giggled even though there wasn't remotely anything humorous being said.

_Why did women do that? _

"You are a looker, aren't you, Sherlock? How did you know my name? Does Molly talk about me or did you do that magic thing you do?"

_Oh dear Lord. Not this again._ "I don't perform magic. I make deductions based on evidence and balance of probability."

"Really?" Meena purred, rising from her seat and sauntering up to him. "What else can you …" She poked him in the chest with her finger, "deduce about me?"

Molly shot to her feet. "I think that's enough. Sherlock, let's go. Meena, I'll ring you later. I'm sure Carter is finished watching the match by now and wants to see you. You can have a romantic night for two." She gave a little wave to her friend before grabbing hold of her his hand and trying to pull him along with her.

The feel of Molly's hand in his was warm and strange and surprising and made him immediately want to pull away. However, as the handholding also meant they were actually leaving, he meekly followed instead. The companion, however, wasn't inclined to be put off. A shuffle of footsteps and she planted herself in front of them. She was plainly the persistent type.

"Well, Sherrrrrlock?" Meena sing-songed his name.

_Is she intoxicated?_ Her eyes were dilated, but her cheeks weren't flushed, her movements seemed steady and there were no other tell-tale signs of inebriation present.

"Meena, you don't want Sherlock to—" Molly began, jerking on his hand again.

"Hush up, Molly. No fair trying to rush off with him. He just got here. _You_ get him all the time. Let the rest of us have a turn." She batted her eyes at him. "_Do_ me, Sherlock Holmes."

Molly released his hand abruptly, blushed, and hid her face in both palms this time. Sherlock raised an eyebrow again. Obviously, Meena's last statement had a more salacious meaning. She also didn't seem to care that she was clearly distressing her "friend."

"Go on. Don't be shy," Meena said with a wink he found particularly repulsive.

_Is that how I look when I do that? Preposterous._ If so, he'd never do it again. He didn't care how much people seemed to like it. Whatever else she was, this woman was clearly not Molly's true friend. The sooner his pathologist was made aware of that fact, the better. Yet, as he made this decision, he could all but hear John yelling in the back of his mind that it was better to mind his own business and keep some deductions to himself. Nonetheless, if Molly's companion was going to ask for her comeuppance, who was he not to oblige?

"You work in a nail shop even though you have a four-year degree. You only went to university to satisfy the whims of an overbearing father, but you work in the shop because it feeds your incessant need to gossip and live vicariously through the lives of others. You have a dog, a black terrier of some kind. You're thirty-four, but you tell everyone you're twenty-nine and you're considering Botox to get rid of the frown lines on your forehead—you shouldn't do it, you know. The risks far outweigh the benefits on that one."

"Sherlock," Molly hissed. "That's enough."

But he was already on a roll and he simply couldn't stop himself. "You've never been married, but you desperately want to be—more for the actual wedding than the marriage part. Moreover, you recently had an abortion and the reason you are here tonight instead of with your boyfriend …" He paused, digging into the recesses of his mind in search of his information. "Carter? Is because the baby you aborted was not his, but you don't want to break up with him because being with someone is better than being alone. Did I miss anything?"

A loud, prolonged hush filled the space between them. In fact, the only audible sounds were the distant hums of a few talking diners clustered in the far corner, the chink of metal against metal as the cooks stirred various dishes under the heating lamps of the buffet with inordinately large serving spoons, and a low, keening groan issuing forth from Molly.

Then, everything happened all at once. Meena broke into tears and fled from the room. Molly elbowed him in the side and tore off after her friend. Sherlock was left standing there, holding his aching side and unsure of what had just occurred.

"Not good?" he asked no one.

Looking back, he supposed the deduction about the abortion was crossing a line. Sometimes, he got on a roll and the deductions just made themselves. Actually, now that he considered it, that particular issue was becoming a bit of a running problem lately. But, if it was such a secret, why have a business card from the abortion clinic tucked into the front pocket of your purse? Furthermore, why not zip the purse closed? There was a bridal magazine in there, the woman still could have shoved it out of the way and zipped the thing closed if she really wanted to. Anyone with half a brain would have been able to put two and two together and deduce all that.

As he journeyed to the lab alone, deciding to wait for Molly to catch up with him there, he wondered how much trouble he might be in for this. Clearly, Molly was cross. Whenever John was cross, he'd take off and spend the evening drinking at the pub with Mike Stamford or one of his other cronies. But, so far, there was very little about living with John that provided insight into living with Molly.

Sherlock squelched the slight trepidation clenching his stomach. What was wrong with him? Here he was a grown man acting like he was about to receive a keen scolding from his mummy. It was absurd really. No doubt, once she calmed down, Molly would see that he'd done her favor. Who knew how long that Meena had been using the poor girl? It was a miracle the threat of Moriarty had resurfaced and she'd had to move in to Baker Street. What might have happened if she was still living with her "friend"? He shuddered to think of the probable outcomes.

That was it. Molly's heart was too big, too open. She trusted too easily. She needed to learn not to do that or she'd only get hurt more often. That was a prime example of how the woman undoubtedly didn't understand when she was wasting emotion on the wrong people. Good Lord, she probably was disappointed or got her heart broken on a daily basis. How did she cope?

Well, no longer. He could be her guide, her mentor as it were. He smiled to himself as he entered the lab and settled down behind his favorite microscope. Yes, that was it. This was what he could do to solve not only this problem, but the main issue of her being in love with him. He'd teach her to rein in her emotions. Promote logic and limit sentiment. That was the way to be. Once people proved themselves trustworthy—then and only then—should they be allowed some access to your life and only then should you permit yourself to care for them. Mycroft would disagree, of course, but his older brother didn't know everything.

Sherlock knew, by the time he was done, Molly Hooper would be a cleverer, improved woman more than able to logically navigate the waters of any relationship. There would be no more Meenas, psychopath ex-boyfriends, or milksop fiancés. She'd be a woman in control of her own destiny, a woman who was a victim to no one. Then, she could just go off and fall in love with someone else, someone worthy of her.

He smiled, infinitely pleased with himself. Yes, this was a genius plan. He was actually disappointed that he hadn't conceived it sooner. But, then again, he always missed something. He'd made his peace with that fault long ago. It was just the way it was.


	4. Just Friends

**Chapter Four: Just Friends**

The git was right where she knew he'd be, occupied behind a microscope studying slides as if he hadn't just trampled some innocent girl's feelings into dust. Well, not _innocent_, Molly mentally amended, but still not deserving of such harsh treatment. She slammed the door to the lab as she came in, hoping to at least put a jolt into his unruffled demeanor. Instead, all he did was calmly make a note in his little black notebook before replacing the slide he'd been looking at with another.

And, with that, any remaining guilt she'd had for striking him all those months ago was gone. He'd be lucky if he escaped without her hitting him now. _Wanker. Smug, beautiful wanker, but wanker nonetheless._

"Is this where you slap me again?"

Had he read her mind? Sometimes, it certainly seemed like he could. Molly ignored his obvious dig as she shrugged on her lab coat from where she'd hung it behind the door.

Sherlock, however, was apparently determined to remain in control of the conversation. "You're late."

"No."

That brought him from behind his microscope. He peered at her as if confused. "No? I've been sitting her for almost fifteen minutes. You are _definitely_ late."

"No, as in we're not going to sweep this under the rug and pretend it didn't happen. Do you have any idea the damage you've done? I couldn't even get Meena to talk to me."

"Good. Stay away from her. No need to thank me."

"Thank you?" she echoed. "Are you mad? You just reduced my dearest friend to a puddle of tears and you think I should be grateful to you?"

"Haven't you been paying attention? She wasn't your _friend_. I just proved that. And, yes, you _should_ be grateful. I saved you a lot of trouble." Sherlock's tone indicated he believed himself to be the injured party now. He went back to his slides, muttering to himself in the whiney tone she'd once found to be cute. "Honestly, this is worse than John with his revolving door of twit girlfriends. Each one more tedious and insipid than the last. I tried to tell him they were hopeless, but did he listen? No. I don't know how he managed to find Mary all on his own. A miracle, if you ask me."

Molly remembered all the times John had complained about Sherlock being rude to his girlfriends as well as all the times Sherlock had wailed about John bringing round some new totty he thought was particularly tedious. She'd known then that it wasn't just a slight bit of jealousy that had Sherlock acting this way. It was more a protective measure he'd employed for his friend. Molly had tried to explain to John on more than one occasion.

"_What are you saying?" he'd asked. "That Sherlock is operating like some kind of x-ray machine for my girlfriends to see if they're a bomb about to blow up on me?"_

"_Yes," she'd replied. "Right in one!"_

John hadn't believed her. Or, at least, he hadn't taken her seriously enough not to stop being furious whenever Sherlock practiced his x-ray technique on the next unsuspecting prospective lover. Nevertheless, Molly'd always believed her theory to be sound. Could the consulting detective be employing the same measure with her? Why would he ever care? Meena wasn't a potential romantic partner, she was merely her friend. Sherlock hadn't even bothered to deduce Tom in the few times the men had been in the room together. Truthfully, he seemed to avoid her former betrothed like he had the plague.

"You're wrong about Meena. She's a good person."

He scoffed. "You think that about everyone, which reminds me. I've decided to take you under my wing. It's time you had a proper education on how to stop your incessant need to see the world through the eyes of a Disney princess. That's a liability which will get you killed one of these days, or, worse, heartbroken."

"Did you just imply that heartbreak is worse than dying?"

"Yes. So?"

"How would you know?"

That jolted him, to be sure. She watched him carefully, curious to see what his expression might give away. There were few gifts she had to combat Sherlock's powers of deduction or his overall brilliance of mind. But, there was very little he could hide from her if she was observing him like this. She always somehow managed to see beyond the façade he usually hid behind. It wasn't a power she showed off too often. If he ever knew how much she could truly intuit from his expressions, he'd probably never come near her again. Thus, she kept her findings usually to herself. Still, on more than one occasion they had proven helpful at giving insight into the mind and heart—_yes, he had one_—of Sherlock Holmes.

Besides a wariness in his frown, he gave nothing away. He opened his mouth as if to ask her a question and then seemed to think better of it. He returned to the microscope and busied himself with work. Molly turned away from him and went over to her desk. She picked up where she'd left off before going to meet Meena, who she endeavored to deal with tomorrow.

She was signing off on the third report when he finally spoke.

"I wasn't wrong. She isn't your friend. She uses you as a measuring stick. As long as you are lonelier and worse off than she is, she's OK. The second you have something that she deems only worthy of her, she seeks to take it away."

She hated how much what he was saying seemed true. How happy had Meena been to take her in after the demise of her relationship with Tom? She'd almost … reveled in it. Molly had thought at the time that it was an effort to raise her spirits, but now she wasn't as sure. Still, there was more to it than that. Meena wasn't perfect. No one was. But she had her good qualities as well. Molly focused on those and endeavored to get to the bottom of the rest when and if she ever got to talk to Meena again. "Don't talk about that which you don't know."

"I know friendship."

"Really?" She looked up at him with a glare. "Does it matter that, in hurting Meena, you humiliated me or that you caused needless strife between two women who have been close for over a decade? Is that the actions of _you_ being my friend?"

"I never said I was your friend."

This time, it felt like he was the one doing the slapping. She let out a shallow breath and looked away from him so he wouldn't notice the tears threatening. The silence between them was filled with a host of unsaid things. Molly clenched her jaw and dove into another report, fighting back the urge to scream at him, to run from the room in tears, or to in any way give him the assurance that his hurtful words had struck home. Of course they weren't friends. How could she have been stupid to think so? Sure, she'd helped him fake his death, helped him a million different times in a million different ways since she'd met him, but to the great Sherlock Holmes, that didn't make them friends.

She'd long ago accepted the fact that she'd never have him as a romantic partner. That was bad enough. But all the time they'd spent together, all the work they'd accomplished, and the trials they had endured, she had at least thought she'd earned a place in his inner circle. She wouldn't be his girlfriend, but she could be his friend. Somehow, she told herself more times than she wanted to remember, that would be enough. Sherlock had so few friends. It would be an honor to be considered one. She counted. She counted amongst his friends. That was much more than many people could claim.

Except she didn't count. Not really.

"I've upset you?" he asked quietly.

She jumped, unprepared for the fact that he'd moved to stand near her. The body heat emanating from him brushed against her arm, causing the little hairs to rise. She gave a dismissive wave. "It's fine."

"Molly, I—you see, I—"

She kept her eyes firmly on the work in front of her. "Of course we're not friends. I don't know what I was thinking. Why would someone like you ever consider _me_ a friend? I'm just a … pathologist, a work colleague, a pliable tool to help you when you need it."

His hand reached out, his touch nearly searing her skin briefly before she snatched away. "Don't. Just don't," she said. She rose from her desk, shoving past him and walking a few steps away before she flipped about to face him. She needed the space, needed him firmly out of reach—just as he always was and how he always would be. Her frustration and anger towards him was growing, but there was additional amount aimed at herself. When would she learn? Maybe he was right. Maybe she did see the good in people too much for her own best interests. But was it really better to go around so cynical and apathetic all the time? This outlook had not served to bring Sherlock any measure of true happiness, had it?

"Molly, you're important to me. You must understand that."

"No," she interrupted. "No, you don't get to lie to me now to try to smooth things over, fill my head with a bunch of rubbish about how I count when I clearly don't. Not really. It's fine, Sherlock. You're not my friend. I accept that. It was foolish of me to think so in the first place. I'm not John Watson or Irene Adler or even Greg Lestrade. I'm just me. Boring, old me."

"You're not. You're …" He clenched his eyes closed as though searching for the right word. Then popped back open to stare frantically at her. "You're … just _different_."

"I don't have a problem with being different. I never have. It took me a long time to accept myself." She glared up at him, defiantly, not daring to hide the tears welling in her eyes this time. _Let him see. _It was time he truly saw her. _Past time._ "But I have, and you or no one else is going to take that away from me. I don't need you to tell me that I'm important or that I'm different or that I count. I already know that. I'm a good person. I'm smart—maybe not as exceptional as you, but I have my own set of talents. I can do things, understand things that even you can't."

"Molly—"

"Shut. Up. Now."

His mouth snapped closed. Whether it was because of the vehemence of her tone or from surprise that she would speak to him in such a way, Molly didn't know. She didn't care.

"You always have the last word. Well, not this time. This time, it's mine. Let me tell you a few things about me, Sherlock Holmes, a few things your _brilliant_ _deductions_ have certainly missed." She took a deep breath. "I do see the good in people. You consider it a liability. I consider it an asset. One look and you see someone's every fault. One look and I see every potential. No one is perfect. Not even you. People make mistakes, they fall short and they need second chances. They need people like me to see the decency in them—even in its smallest quantity—to remind them of that decency and to give them a reason to want to be a better person, to try harder. Otherwise, they truly would be lost souls indeed."

She edged nearer to him. It was dangerous having him this close, but she had to make her point. He had to understand. "I want to see the goodness in people because, for all the ones I get wrong, all the ones who disappoint me or 'break my heart,' there is one who is everything I believed him to be and more. There is one who can overcome all the wrong he's done and make the world a better place to be. My seeing the good in him, my trusting that goodness when cold logic would have told me to turn him away, made a difference, and I will never be sorry for that."

All the blood drained from his face at the implications of her words. She held his gaze, her chin cocking up at him. _That's right. You_, she thought. _People like you desperately need people like me._

She continued, not allowing him to speak. "Meena has her failings, but she has been my friend for a long, long time. The woman you see as a vain, hanger-on who only uses me as her personal self-esteem test, is also the woman who skipped her bio midterm our first year at uni to bring me chicken soup when I got the flu. She's the one who talked to my professors and got them to let me make up the work I'd missed. She has her issues. She flirts to make herself feel more comfortable around men, and she doesn't always think before she acts or speaks. But she _is_ my friend, one of the few I have in this world. And, if you say one more word against her, I will throw you out of my lab and refuse to work with you ever again."

And, with that, she turned on heel and left the room. She moved down the hallway, unsure of what this would change between her and Sherlock. Would he hate her now? Or, would this just be something else he chalked up to her naiveté and silliness? Whatever happened, she didn't regret her words. She'd been right. Molly pulled her phone from her pocket to see if Meena had bothered to respond to the three texts she'd sent. So far, nothing.

_Tomorrow_, she told herself. _I'll deal with it tomorrow._ The news of the abortion had shocked Molly, but not really. Meena was always one of those people who could never be truly satisfied with what she had. She was always wondering what was over the next hill, intent on finding greener pastures. Nevertheless, Molly knew Meena should have told her what she'd been struggling with. _I should have been there to lend an ear_, she mentally chided herself as she entered the heart of the morgue and began to prep her next post-mortem. _She's been going through all of this on her own. It's not right._

She wheeled out the next body on her list. Black female. Early twenties. Suspected suicide by drug overdose. As she took samples and worked through her protocols, she put all of it out of her mind. Sherlock, Meena, all of it. This is why she loved this work. Not only was it always a mystery to uncover—she loved puzzles—but there was also the added comfort that came from protocols and completing the same pattern of steps in an attempt to reach concrete conclusions. Working through her incisions, little mysteries within the body were uncovered. _Pregnant. Barely a few weeks._ Focusing on the organs gave her further insight. _Last meal was chicken, rice, and vegetables. _Removing the heart, she weighed it. _Healthy. No former signs of drug-related damage. _The lungs, kidneys, and liver corroborated this theory. In fact, the longer she worked, the more Molly became certain this suicide was hardly that.

It was as she'd moved lower that she heard him come in. She sighed, putting down the scalpel she'd been holding and looking up at him. He entered the room at his usual pace, stopping only when he was a few feet from the long, metal table between them.

"I'm sorry," he began, swallowing nervously. "I would … if you want … I would like to be your friend. Would that … be agreeable to you?"

Her gasp was quickly muffled. Her shock took a bit longer to get under control. A myriad of thoughts rushed her brain all at once, but only one made it out of her mouth. "Sherlock, if this is about what I said, it doesn't matter. We don't have to—we can remain as we were. It's fine. I don't want you do this because of a guilty conscience. It's better if—"

"Molly," he interrupted, a small grin quirking the side of his mouth. "I'm a sociopath. We don't _have_ consciences, remember?"

She laughed. She couldn't help it. Having her words from before so wittily turned against her was humorous. He joined in on the laugh, his rich, deep voice blending so well with hers. It was at times like this, when he was unguarded and so at ease with himself and her, that she loved him best. At times like this, she knew why she was destined to love him for the rest of her life. It all made sense. He was wonderful and good and caring and so, so clever.

The laughter ended as an air of seriousness returned. "Well?" he asked, his ever-shifting eyes giving away his nervousness.

"Yes," she said, a light, happy feeling hitting her. "I would like that."

"John will probably offer you his condolences when he finds out," he commented. "He often complains I'm not the easiest friend to have."

"I know."

He gave a swift nod, his usual expression of seriousness sliding into place as he clasped his hands behind him and surveyed the body lying before him. "Lestrade has a case involving three bodies found in an arson fire. The building was condemned, and the room they were found in was locked from the inside and without windows. I've brought samples and need tests run to prove my assertions correct." There was a pause. "Would you help me?"

It was his complete sincerity that had her smiling. "Give me fifteen minutes," she replied. "I just need to finish up here."

He leaned down, his eyes narrowing as he studied the female's fingertips. "Suspected suicide?" he asked.

"Yes, they claimed drug overdose—"

"No," he swiftly countered. "This was murder."

"Yes, I'd already worked that out. Fifteen more minutes, and I can prove it."

They shared a look. Something glinted in his eyes, something she'd never seen from him before. It was an odd, almost feral expression. Not anger or frustration at having his moment of deduction glory stolen. This was something earthier, and strangely heated. If he'd been anyone else, she would have thought immediately thought he wanted to shag her. But this was Sherlock Holmes, and she was Molly Hooper. The day he would want her that way would never come.

Just as quickly as it had flared, that look of his was doused and gone. He cleared his throat, nodded his head, and told her he would be waiting back at the lab when she finished. And, with that, he swept from the room. Molly blinked, unsure of what had just happened here. Whatever it was, it wasn't what she'd initially thought. She knew that. That was ridiculous. She and Sherlock were friends. That was all it would ever be. It was fine. After all, it was more than she'd had a few minutes ago. She'd take it.

_Just_ friends. That was enough. Wasn't it?


	5. Baby Steps

**Chapter Five: Baby Steps**

_Odd_.

Molly was sitting next to him on the couch again. Close. Alarmingly so. In fact, if he extended his elbow out by an angle of even ten degrees, it would brush against the edge of the lilac robe she was wearing over her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas.

As much as he'd been slightly disturbed to come out of his mind palace to find her thusly situated next to him on the couch, she seemed unaffected by their constrained proximity. In fact, ever since their mutual decision more than a fortnight ago to categorize their association as "friends," any previous tension on her part in regards to their interactions had dissipated. On one hand, this was good as it meant their conversations were no longer stilted with endless stammers, misunderstandings, and awkward pauses, all of which drove him to distraction and made his already-impatient nature steadily more impatient. On the other hand, it meant a strange, new intimacy—_for lack of a better word, not because it meant anything else, mind you_—had developed between them which he had no way of suitably classifying.

Sherlock Holmes was friends with a woman. _Very odd._ Not that gender played a role in his continuing incredulity on this front. It was more the idea of the word "friend" being used in a plural and in reference to _him_. Sherlock Holmes had _friends_? He'd only recently gotten used to the idea of accepting John in this role as well as all the rights, responsibilities, and burdens that went along with it. The idea of there being two people in existence willing to call him a friend and desiring him to do the same with them was nothing short of inexplicable. Then, to have this second person be Molly Hooper of all people…

_Yes, very odd indeed._ While he'd quickly adjusted to having a friend in John, his adjustment with Molly was decidedly dissimilar. Perhaps it was supposed to be this way? John was his _best_ friend while Molly was just a _friend_. It was a logical assumption that the two roles would feel different. It was one of the reasons Sherlock had been unwilling to agree when Molly had assumed she and he were friends in the first place. John was his friend. He knew how he felt about John. This was not how he felt about Molly and, therefore, logically, she could not be his friend. Adding "best" to the friend status certainly would explain the contrast in his feelings between John and Molly. However, the only way he could know for certain was if he had a second "just friend" to measure his feelings for Molly against. But whom? The answer came to him when talking to Mary alone the last time he'd followed John home post-case with promises of a quick fry-up.

"_Am I your friend?" he'd asked._

_Mary gave a toothy grin John always found ridiculously endearing, but Sherlock viewed as a clear manipulation tactic and said, "Of course. Why do you ask?" _

"_Well, you did shoot me. It's a fair question."_

"_True, but I also saved your life. Besides, you and John are a package deal. When I became his wife, you became my friend. Is that easy enough to understand?"_

Sherlock had nodded and went off to find John so he could tell him all about his brilliant discovery in the arson case and so he could avoid any prying Mary might want to do in terms of his new choice of flatmate. He'd not forgotten her unnatural interest in seeing him paired romantically with Molly. He'd wanted to forget, but he hadn't. _Ridiculous. Not my area._

But, in the end, his confirmation with Mary had brought him no closer to understanding all of this friendship business than before. Shouldn't his friendship with Mary feel the same as the one he shared with Molly? After all, they were both females, both clever and increasingly valuable and beneficial in otherwise sticky situations, and both willing to tolerate his idiosyncrasies for long periods of time. Yet, the little area he had marked "friends" in his mind palace, while seeming to be a quite comfortable fit for the likes of Mary Watson, could not seem to house Molly Hooper. It was almost as if his mental image of the pathologist simply refused to stay where she was put.

It made no sense. It was also highly annoying. Sherlock had surmised that their developing intimacy—_Because there REALLY was no more apt word to describe it_—somehow correlated to his friendship with Molly. But, before he could prove his hypothesis correct, he needed to see how far this … intimacy … would extend. Therefore, he had concocted today's experiment.

As a rule, Molly refused to sit in the vacated chairs in front of the fireplace. He wasn't sure why this was and, so far, he'd been unable to discern the answer from the data available. Sherlock knew for a fact that the chairs were both serviceable and of acceptable comfort. He'd confirmed this by having Mrs. Hudson sit on them and give her opinion on their level of softness and support both in comparison to each other and by themselves. Furthermore, in comparison to the couch, neither chair would cause a person of Molly's short stature to be uneasy in terms of keeping her feet firmly on the floor. With the weather heating up outside, the fireplace was not in use; so it could not have been that the situation of the seats would make her overheated. So, he had no definitive answer as to why she wouldn't sit there. And, without additional data, he could formulate no further theories.

He supposed he could have simply asked Molly why she would only sit on the sofa, but what was the fun in that? Thus, he devised one, single way of gathering more information for all his current questions regarding Molly Hooper. Knowing his new flatmate's preferred post-work ritual of showering, making a cuppa, and reclining on the far left end of the couch to read for a few hours before bedtime, he'd waited until she was in the shower, situated himself in the middle of the sofa, entered his mind palace, and waited to see what she would do.

Studies on space proximities in human beings suggested that people tended to position themselves in terms of other people outside of personal space boundaries, depending on the level of intimacy established. As a rule, this is not a conscious decision, but one that has been developed intrinsically during the formative years based primarily on cultural and familial constructs. For example, if one placed two strangers in a lift, they will naturally congregate to the opposite ends of the car. Adding two more individuals will cause the four corners of the car to be occupied. Add a fifth, and the person will situate themselves directly in the middle, equidistant from all other passengers.

Of course, the level of connection between the two subjects changes things. Lovers placed in a lift, for instance, would stand next to each other in the middle, just slightly apart. A mother and child would be likely to do the same. So, Sherlock decided to place himself not directly in the middle of the couch, but slightly to the left, significantly dividing the space Molly usually occupied and increasing the level of proximity to himself. Thus, as he and Molly were not romantic partners, siblings, or mother and child, her probable reaction should be to take one look at the situation and innately drift over to occupy one of the chairs.

She hadn't. No, he'd come out of a particularly long sojourn within his mind palace to find her seated in her usual spot, less than a hair's breadth away from him. What did that mean? Was it because they were now "friends"? No, that made no sense. He felt confident Mary would have seated herself in one of the chairs. Why wouldn't Molly sit there? What correlation—if any—did this have to this blasted intimacy developing between them? And, worst of all, what did this intimacy really mean?

This wasn't odd anymore. It was frustrating and more than a bit disconcerting. It was also not very important. No, certainly not. In fact, he'd wasted far too much brain power pondering this as it was. He needed a case. Or, he needed Moriarty to make a move. Boredom. Yes, that was what this was. Otherwise, the little decisions that Molly made every day wouldn't seem so important. He knew that. Even now, his brain was rotting in his skull from inactivity and—

Molly let out a soft laugh and turned a page. He immediately darted a glance at her and rolled his eyes. She was still immersed in the tale of the samurai zombie. The second volume of the trilogy, apparently. In addition to sword-wielding undead on the cover, this book had a teenager holding a boomerang with eyes as brown as Molly's and hair an unflattering shade of hot pink.

_Dear Lord_, he thought. _First, she ruins my experiment and now this. _"How much longer are you going to putrefy your brain with that mindless drivel?"

Molly didn't bother to glance up as she said, "Don't worry. You can read this one when I'm done."

_What?_ "Why on earth would you think I'd want to?"

"Because you read the first one."

"I did not!" _How did she know?_ He'd been so careful.

She turned to look at him, a mocking little grin on her face even as her arm accidentally grazed his shirt.

"Really?" she asked. "I would stop on chapter thirteen, put in the bookmark to hold my place, and return to find it mysteriously residing in chapter twenty-two. How else would you explain that?"

His eyes darted away. "Perhaps you merely forgot where you were or the bookmark slipped."

"It happened more than once. I'm not as good as you, but even I know there's only one deduction there: Someone else was reading my book."

He was developing a hang nail. _How unfortunate_, he thought as he stared down at it. "You can't assume it's me. Mrs. Hudson is constantly in here. She likes to read. Balance of probability says it's her."

"She reads the tabloids, not books. And apparently, she saw you reading the novel in question on _two_ occasions when she came to bring you your morning tea. I know. I asked her."

_Damn. _Clearly, he was going to have to have a discussion with his landlady about when to keep her mouth shut. He was cornered, but that didn't mean he was about to admit to anything.

"Nonetheless, it doesn't change the fact that it's mindless drivel. If you are so in need of reading material, I have several medical journals which will whet your appetite and not leave your mind irreversibly damaged."

The book rose again. "No, thanks. I'm constantly reading that stuff at work. It's nice to rest my mind a bit when I get home."

_Rest her mind?_ How did one even do that? He shook his head in dismay. What must it be like to have a brain like that? To be so blessedly monotonous all the time? He didn't believe he'd know how to cope. Just thinking about it was tedious. He would have said all of this to her, but living with John and his recent run-ins with Molly's temper had taught him that it was sometimes better to keep his opinions on the subject of one's intellect to himself.

She reached over and patted his elbow. "I'm almost done. You can read it tonight. Just be patient."

Her condescending tone left him mortified. Worse, he was more than a little angry at himself for feeling an ounce of excitement at the prospect of reading that twaddle. What was the world coming to? Further proof his brain was dying more and more every second. Didn't she understand that? He refused to be on the defensive here when the problem was plainly her. "Your pyjamas are ludicrous. Winnie the Pooh? You're a grown-up. Dress like one."

She seemed taken aback for a moment before looking down at herself. "Grown-ups can like Winnie the Pooh."

"Evidently, each of the characters embodies a different mental illness. Christopher Robin represents schizophrenia, Piglet represents Social Anxiety Disorder, Eeyore represents depression, Tiger represents Attention Deficit Disorder, Pooh represents an eating disorder associated with low self-esteem, Rabbit is Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Kanga and Roo represent Dissociative Personality Disorder, and Owl represents dyslexia. What do you think of that?"

"I think, for a man who claims to be worried about mindless drivel, you spend too much time reading on the internet."

_Point, Hooper._ Sherlock, however, was far from conceding defeat in this verbal sparring match. He ran his gaze over her, stopping at the pink, porcine face beaming at him from the cuff of her pyjama pants. "Suddenly, your appreciation for Piglet speaks volumes."

"Remind me to buy you a stuffed Tiger for Christmas, will you?" She patted him on the elbow again before returning her attention returned to the book.

Now he was to be patronized _and_ ignored? _This is what friendship gets you?_ His frustration reached epic proportions. "Why are you sitting here?"

Molly jerked her head around at him. "Why shouldn't I be sitting here?" she asked, appearing wary and suddenly uncomfortable. Just like that, he felt the warm air of intimacy between them shifted to something cooler. _Good. _That, at least, he could understand.

He gestured towards the fireplace. "There are two vacant seats available. Why sit _here_?"

"I like to sit here."

That was all she said. Like it explained anything. "_I_ was sitting here."

She blinked and folded the book into her lap. "Am I disturbing you? You were in your mind palace, and I didn't think you'd be bothered."

They were getting nowhere. He pointed at the couch. "Molly, you always sit in that exact spot. Every day. Every night. Why?"

"I like to sit here."

Yes, they'd already covered that. Was she trying to drive him mad? "I was sitting here. You should have sat over there," he snapped, pointing towards the seats.

Molly quickly shuffled to her feet. He knew from the way her face had fallen that he'd said something wrong, but, for the life of him, he didn't have a clue what it was. He wanted a simple answer. That was all. Couldn't she understand? Not knowing was making him insane.

But she clearly didn't understand. Without a word, she turned to walk out the door and up to her bedroom. _Not good._

"Molly," he called before she could escape. He didn't want to fight with her. He abhorred fighting with her. Sparring? Yes, he would spar with her any day. But fighting? So much emotion and talk of … feelings. No, he didn't want that. Especially not with her. "I … didn't mean to offend you in whatever way I might have done so. I merely asked because I wanted information. Why won't you sit in those chairs? Is there a problem with them?"

She turned about. Her face was pale, her expression still circumspect. But, thankfully, she wasn't teary-eyed. He wouldn't have been able to fathom how to handle that.

"There's no problem with them," she answered.

Unquestionably there was. There had to be. _Why is she being so obstinate? _He shot to his feet and went over to the one he usually occupied, flouncing down into it. "What is wrong with this one?" He wiggled in it a few times. "It's comfortable, serviceable, and has adequate back support. Yet, you've never sat here. Not once in the near month you have resided in this flat. Why?"

Her head cocked to the side as she regarded him as if he were acting strangely, which he wasn't.

"That's _your_ chair, Sherlock."

"All the furniture belongs to me."

"Yes, but that is your favorite chair. Everyone knows that."

Finally, they were getting somewhere! He pointed to the chair across from him. "And that one? You could sit there, but you don't."

"That's John's chair."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he studied her. "John no longer lives here."

She shrugged, a becoming blush blooming in her cheeks. "It's still his chair."

Then, with this last bit of data, a wave of understanding flooded his brain. The deluge brought with it the usual heady sensations of relief mixed with excitement and supreme satisfaction. However, he couldn't fully enjoy himself because everything was also tinged with something else. Pity. For Molly. Did she really think she couldn't sit where she wanted? This was her home. She should be comfortable. Even though he preferred to sit in this chair, it did not mean no one else could do so. When John had lived with him, he'd sat here occasionally. Sherlock knew he wasn't that territorial when it came to furniture. But Molly clearly had this impression. Where had she gotten it and how far did it extend?

Before he could formulate how to deal with this, the door was opened by Mary Watson. "Knock, knock, you two," she said. "We finally made it. Sorry we're late."

John came in behind her, weighted down with a load of sundry, brightly-colored articles. The most important of their bundles was swaddled in a blanket-covered transport device. Molly immediately put down her book and walked over to greet them all. Sherlock, however, didn't bother.

John settled the carrier on the couch and began the arduous task of divesting himself of the rest of his bounty. Sherlock's gaze darted to the carrier for a moment, taking note of the movement visible beneath the blanket before turning to take in an exhausted-looking Mrs. Watson, who was excitedly chatting with Molly.

"I was worried you two might have changed your mind," Molly was saying. "New parents, I'm told, are often fearful of leaving their little one behind, even if just for a bit."

"Are you sure you don't mind watching her?" John asked, carefully lifting the pink blanket away to reveal his daughter. He lifted the baby, taking the time to arrange her so she was length-wise in his arms, one hand covering the back of her head.

"I'm honored you would ask me." Molly wandered closer to gaze at the wiggling, bald bundle in his partner's arms. "I don't often get to interact with babies, you know. Well, not live ones at any rate. Occupational hazard, I'm afraid." She paused, as what she'd said seemed to hit her. "Oh, I'm sorry. That was—"

_Oh, dear Lord. She's digging herself in deeper._ "Molly, stop talking," he said.

"Yeah." She flushed, ducked her head, and gave a laugh. "Sorry."

"How long will you be gone, John?" Sherlock asked, uneasily eyeing the infant as well as all of the baggage she apparently came with. How many things could one small human need? He hadn't been at all confident about Molly undertaking this particular endeavor when she'd told him of her plans. Now that the child in question was actually in his flat, he felt decidedly less confident.

"Two hours. Maybe three," Mary said as she took the baby from John and approached Sherlock. Without any by-your-leave, she gently laid the creature on his chest. He immediately stiffened, unsure if he should move, but unwilling to jostle it. When the baby moved on its own, he had no choice but to cuddle the thing against him. He cupped his hand against the child's head, as he'd witnessed John doing earlier, but beyond wrapping his free arm awkwardly around the torso, was unsure of what else to do. The frilly, yellow dress they'd dressed the child in bunched up around him, making things decidedly worse.

This did not stop him from glaring at the mother. "What do you think you're doing?" he hissed. "Take it back!"

"No." She grinned back at him, unrepentant. "Abigail wishes to meet her Uncle Sherlock properly. Say hello."

"I've met her properly. I came to visit you in hospital when you had her, did I not?"

"You also have refused to hold her. She's nearly a month old, Sherlock. It's time to get over your aversion to babies. You like older children just fine. I don't see the problem." She removed his hand from the miniature torso and placed it on the child's nappy-covered bottom. "Abby is going to be an important part of your life. Time to start getting used to her. Otherwise, you'll hurt her feelings."

He looked down. The fragile creature in his arms rustled against him, tiny, rosebud lips quivering gently and blue eyes blinking back to him. "She's a baby. She won't care."

"You're her godfather. Believe me, she'll care."

"Shhh, you two. You'll upset her," Molly said, sweeping in to rescue him from the child.

_Thank God_. He sighed and relaxed in his chair.

Molly gently jiggled the infant in her arms. "Hello, darling girl. How are you? You've grown. I told you to stop that, didn't I?"

She held the baby out in front of her, staring down at her as if she were the most delightful thing in the world. Sherlock was amazed at Molly's grace in the situation. Her movements were swift and smooth. The only time he'd seen her thus was in the depths of a post-mortem. Then, there was her expression. He'd never seen her look so happy, so … radiant. At first glance, one would have thought the child she was holding was her own.

_Beautiful._ The second the word entered his mind in terms of describing Molly, he shot to his feet, needing to put some distance between them. This was absurd. There were more important things to think about. He walked over to John, who'd been watching them all with a bemused expression. _Time to get rid of that._

"I don't think leaving the child here is a good idea."

"Her name is Abby, Sherlock. It isn't that hard to say, is it?" John asked, keeping his attention on the three females still in front of the fireplace.

Sherlock phone buzzed. Text from Mycroft.

_A baby and Miss Hooper in your flat now, Sherlock? How domestic you've become. What's next? House shopping?_

Sherlock gritted his teeth and slipped the phone back into his pocket.

"What is it? Moriarty?" John asked.

_I wish._ "No, only my boorish brother. Unfortunately, Moriarty does not seem inclined to engage me at present, a fact I find curiouser and curiouser as time goes on."

This was true. Nearly a month after he'd plastered his face across Britain and the man in question had yet to utter a peep or make a next move—or, at least, a move Sherlock could connect to him. The disappointment he felt at this was keen. Still, Moriarty's lack of movement did not mean the man did not have his uses. "However, just because he has not contacted me as of yet does not mean he won't. Do you really think my flat is the best place to leave your newborn child?"

"Yes," Mary answered. "No matter where we go, we risk being a target for Moriarty. He knows John is the fulcrum for you. He'd be my main target if I were after you. You'd do anything to rescue him."

Sherlock shared a look with Molly. Her eyebrow raised as if to say _See? John, not me._ He flicked his gaze back to Mary.

"Thank you, darling. It's nice to be the damsel in distress here," John grumbled sardonically. "I would like to point out to anyone who cares that I am a war veteran and quite a good shot with a gun. I could save myself. In fact, I have saved Sherlock's life many times."

Mary waved this away. "Getting his hands on me or Abby would merely be icing on the cake. Twisting the knife that's twisting Sherlock. That kind of thing. At least here there's Mycroft's surveillance and protection. Seems to me there's no safer place in London for our child." She grinned. "Maybe we'll take a page from Molly's book and move in as well."

"No room," Sherlock said.

"There's always 221C," Mary said. "Or, we could take John's old room. Molly could sleep in your bed." Before he could even divine a reply to this scandalous statement, she added. "John says you kip on the couch when you're on a case more often than you use your bedroom. Shouldn't be an issue, right?"

Sherlock recognized a trap when he saw one. If Mary's tone hadn't given her away, the mocking smile would have done so. He narrowed his eyes to make his displeasure known. Mary winked in retaliation.

"I could sleep on the couch. I wouldn't want to put Sherlock out," Molly offered, smiling down at the baby in her arms and clearly missing all of the subtext. "At least, no more than I already have."

"Mary," John said, not missing anything as he darted glances between his wife and his partner, "we should get going if we are going to get back in a reasonable amount of time. I'm sure Molly has to work in the morning and doesn't relish being up all night with Abby."

"I'm off tomorrow," Molly answered. "Take as long as you like."

"Thank you again for watching her," Mary said. "We have everything you need over there. I pumped plenty of milk before we came. You'll need to put it in the fridge. Just heat up some water and let the bottle sit in it for a minute or so until it's ready. You can test it on your wrist to make sure before you feed her. She ate just before we got here, so she should just want to sleep." Mary came over and pecked her daughter's head goodbye. "Goodbye, my love. You be good for Aunt Molly, all right?"

"Aunt Molly?" Molly asked.

Sherlock was pleased to see she wasn't taking this aunt business any better than he was taking being an uncle.

"Do you not want to be?" John asked.

Mary interrupted before Molly could answer. "I know you and I aren't close, but you've been John's friend for years and I thought—"

"No, I think it's lovely. I just. I never thought … I don't have any siblings, you see—at least not any …" She looked down at the child in her arms and then back up at Mary and John. Sherlock did not miss the tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you. I would be honored to be her aunt."

"Good," Mary said, sending a harsh look at Sherlock. "I wish all our friends would feel that way."

John joined in. "We should only be a gone a few hours, Molly. Dinner at La Mancha, and then a trip to Tesco. Call if you have any problems."

"Don't let Sherlock make you do all the work," Mary added. "He is, after all, her godfather."

John added, "If he changes a nappy, make sure to video it. I promised Greg we'd send it to him."

Sherlock remembered back to the time when, all those years before, when his only friend had been a skull on his mantelpiece and he'd wondered if that were a bad thing. Now, he knew for certain that it wasn't. The skull, after all, would never have put him through the likes of this.

After an absurdly long list of dos and don'ts from John which consisted of such gems as "No firearms around the baby" and "If you experiment on my child, Sherlock, I will kill you," the couple departed the flat. With all the trouble they'd stirred up since they got here, Sherlock was so happy to see them go he escorted them to the door himself and all but slammed it in their faces.

Unfortunately, his happiness was supplanted with something else the second he turned from the door and spied Molly in her spot on the couch, cooing at the baby in her arms. She stopped and looked up at him, smiling.

He was immediately hit with a swooshing clench in his stomach mixed with a sense of elation that, for once, nothing to do with a deduction. The combination was unquestionably unsettling. Without making a conscious decision to do so, he smiled back at her and held her gaze, relaxing into the depths of her pleasant, brown eyes.

It was only when he realized what he was doing, of course, that he freaked out.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks again for the reviews. It makes it easier to want to write, I assure you.**

**As easy as I can navigate words, I am decidedly unable to navigate the world of graphic design. Therefore, if someone will be so kind as to make me a cover for this story, I would be very grateful and most willing to thank you publically on here. Message me if you are interested.**


	6. Unsung Hero

**Chapter Six: Unsung Hero**

Sherlock looked like he'd just been hit in the face with a sledgehammer. Molly wasn't sure what had just happened. A minute ago, he'd been smiling at her. Was he panicking about the baby being here?

"Don't worry," she said. "I'll take care of Abby all on my own. You won't be inconvenienced in the slightest, and I certainly won't ask you to change any soiled nappies." Just the image of that had her biting her lip to staunch her mirth.

He gave a stiff nod and zoomed away from the door and into the kitchen with a speed she'd rarely seen—even from him. She looked down at the child she held. How could anyone be afraid of her? She was so beautiful. Most people believed all babies to be worthy of that adjective, but Abby Watson actually deserved it. From her chubby cheeks and blue eyes down to her tiny feet encased in white, lacey socks, she was the most beautiful baby who'd ever been born. The dress she wore and the flowery, stretchy headband circling her bald head only added to her splendor.

Molly ran a finger lightly over one of the child's plump cheeks and inhaled. The scent of powder, mother's milk, and new infant skin was so nice. She wanted to rain kisses along Abby's face, but she knew that was hardly sanitary or something one could do unless one was the parent. So, she settled for laying the baby out in her lap, examining each detail.

A button nose, strong chin like her father; big eyes like her mother, ten little fingers, five currently curled around Molly's thumb; and the cutest pint-sized grunts ever to be uttered in creation. Molly had never fallen in love so hard before, but she knew she had with this one.

"You like babies."

She looked up. Sherlock was back, standing at the edge of the kitchen, a cup of tea in his hand.

"Yes," she said.

"You were made to be someone's mother."

She gaped at him. It such an unexpected comment coming from Sherlock. Moreover, it made her uneasy. She couldn't agree with him. In fact, she was pretty sure she was the last woman who should be anyone's mother.

"Thank you," she said, finally. "I think."

There was another long moment of silence. She filled it by smiling down at Abby, who was blinking sleepily back at her. Molly was so caught up in what she was doing, she almost forgot who was watching her.

"Tom could have given you children. No doubt, he would have been willing to do whatever you liked in that area."

Molly didn't look up this time. Sherlock was fishing. She knew this tactic of his well. Besides the day when she'd slapped him, he hadn't mentioned her broken engagement or her ex-fiancé. Honestly, she hadn't thought he'd cared. She'd been very relieved not to have to talk about it. The weeks living with Meena had been exhausting because there had been very little time her friend hadn't wanted to talk about Tom.

"I am sure he could and would have," she said.

Abby had drifted off; so she placed her softly back in the carrier. Folding the pink blanket around her, Molly picked up the carrier and set it at her feet before grabbing her book. Tucking her feet under herself, she settled into her place back on the couch and started to read, intent on ignoring Sherlock and this conversation. Hopefully, he would find something else to occupy him soon.

Even as her eyes roved over the words, she could feel his continued stare. These last few days especially, it had seemed as if he had her under a microscope—as if she were the most fascinating thing he'd ever come across. It was unsettling being in the spotlight of his attention for this long. He needed a case. That is what this was.

The sooner the better. How else could one explain his need to know why she didn't sit in the chairs? Why would he care? Moreover, how could he think she would trespass on something that obviously belonged to him and John? John was the most important person in Sherlock's life. Always would be. He should be, and she respected that as much as Mary unmistakably did. Moreover, she was well versed on her place in Sherlock's life. The only place she would ever have.

Yet, she had forced herself into this flat and even though he'd never complained about that, she'd never forgotten it. The second Moriarty was dealt with, she'd get her own place again and leave him be. Go back to just being Molly the pathologist. They would talk occasionally and do experiments, and Sherlock would show up with some exciting case out of the blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

No doubt, he'd be grateful to have her gone out from under him. For her part, Molly knew she'd miss him—even with all the things he did every day that she didn't understand or that irritated her to no end. They had developed quite a rapport with each other in the time they'd been flat mates. There were times when she felt quite comfortable at his side, as if she belonged there. It was ridiculous, of course, but true.

She'd thought living with him would help her to stop loving him. If anything, it made it all the worse. The awkwardness between them had eased, leaving only two people who seemed to understand each other quite well. Unconsciously, they moved around each other in the flat as if in a choreographed dance. It was odd. Living with Tom, she'd felt like they were constantly stepping over each other. They'd blamed the lack of adequate space in their flat, but now she wasn't so sure.

Additionally, Sherlock proved to be quite a considerate person if one gave him the chance. On her mornings off, he'd be up drinking his tea, having already poured a cup for her. She'd make toast—enough for both of them—and take her usual seat on the sofa. She never offered him any; she never had to. Sooner or later, he would meander over to take his place at the other end of the sofa. Taking his share, he'd always promptly thank her. Then, he'd eat his toast and think or eat his toast and complain about some issue bothering him or eat his toast and try to get her to spar with him.

Molly knew these sparring sessions were just ways for him to alleviate boredom. She didn't mind because she'd actually begun to enjoy them. It was fun trying to stay two steps ahead of a man of his brilliance. No wonder John had lived with him as long as he had. When she won one of their trivial battles—which wasn't as often as she would have liked—it was always evident. Sherlock would narrow his eyes at her and look away, sulking, and swiftly change of the subject.

Then there was the talking. Oh, the talks they had! Here was the one man who, instead of grimacing and asking her not to overshare the grotesque details of the day's autopsies, was very curious and demanded to know everything. More than one night she had stayed up too late describing the enlarged liver of one body or the strange stomach contents she'd found in another. There were also plenty of times that she shared her day with him only to find him gazing off into space, evidently having bolted into his mind palace. At first, she'd stopped talking, mortified that she would be so boring he'd felt the need to escape. Then, after a few moments of silence, he would come back to himself and demand to know why she'd gone quiet. She'd blush and, after some prodding on his part, begin her story again.

There were annoyances, of course. His recent fondness for studying her was a good example. There were also the nonstop experiments he conducted on any and everything. She was convinced he'd tried to put something in her tea once. There was a curiosity in his expression as he watched her that clued her in. So, when Mrs. Hudson bustled in to do her morning cleaning and started lecturing Sherlock for his inability to pick up after himself, Molly used the distraction to slip off to the kitchen and poured it down the sink. The obvious disappointment on his face when she failed to show any reaction for the rest of the afternoon told her she was right to be suspicious. The next morning, in an attempt to put a stop to such foolishness for once and for all—and also because the man had been on a case for four days straight without sleep—she'd retaliated by dissolving a high-dose sleeping pill in his tea. Twelve hours later, he'd awoken in his bed, stomped into the living room, and demanded an apology.

_"You first," she'd taunted. _

_ "You drugged me," he seethed. "I'm a recovering addict. You can't do that."_

_ "It wasn't heroin or morphine. It was a sleeping pill. Non-habit forming. I checked."_

"_You still shouldn't have done it."_

"_Don't put anything in my food, and I'll be glad to do the same. Besides, you needed the rest."_

He'd grumbled and slammed back into his bedroom, refusing to talk to her for the rest of the day. But, he'd never again tampered with her food. When John found out, he'd laughed so hard he nearly fell in the floor.

Sherlock's suddenly movement away from the kitchen startled her from her reverie, bringing her back into their current situation at hand.

Instead of taking a seat in his chair as far away from the baby as possible, he occupied the other end of the couch. He sat sideways, folding his legs under him Indian-style as if he were a child. He balanced his teacup on his knee as he continued to watch her.

If he made one more crack about her choice of reading material, she was going to call Mrs. Hudson up here to prove he'd been reading the first novel. That would shut him up for sure. It didn't matter that it was after eight in the evening and well past the time the landlady indulged in her "herbal soothers." Molly would have no qualms disturbing the old girl if the situation called for it.

"He wanted to marry you."

_What? Who? Oh, he's talking about Tom again._ "It doesn't matter now," she said.

"You wanted to marry him, at least enough to agree to his proposal and to wear his ring."

He was not going to let this go. "Sherlock, what is it you want to know? Just get to the point."

He frowned at her in a way he usually only reserved for clients who were annoying him. Molly didn't care. He was the one prying here, not her. Did she ask about his parents or his childhood or his impertinent girlfriend who'd been plastered all over the papers? No, she minded her own business. Why couldn't he do the same?

"My point," he said, "is that you obviously want to be a mother and to be married. Yet, a man comes into your life who can provide you with all you desire and you reject him."

"You're wrong."

"How?"

"Many ways."

"How?" he demanded again.

She took a deep breath. "He couldn't give me what I desire. I thought he could. I told myself he could every day, but he couldn't." She released the breath heavily as she raised her eyes to meet his. "He couldn't."

"What do you desire that he couldn't give you?"

"Not what. Who." She held his gaze as she said this, daring him to ask the next question.

W_ho do you desire? _

If he asked, she would have told him. No fear, no stammering, no hiding. Just blunt honesty. No doubt, it would have been freeing to speak the words aloud. Of course, he'd meet her blunt honesty with equally blunt rejection. She knew that. How could he not? But that could be a good thing. Maybe blunt rejection would make her stop feeling this way. Then, they really would just be friends. That's all she wanted. Friendship with Sherlock. They'd be good as friends. She knew it.

He blinked and, bringing his teacup up to his face, he ducked behind it by taking a loud gulp. When he was done, he got to his feet, seeming intent on returning to the kitchen. He made it halfway across the living area before he stopped, his back to her. "Did you love him?" he asked.

A wound she'd been trying to heal burst open inside of her. Sherlock had no right to that answer. He never would. "Did you love Janine?" she countered.

"No," he said, continuing into the kitchen without a backwards glance.

She heard the delicate chink of the cup being put into the sink, the water running, and then his soft footsteps padding back to her. The determined expression on his face told her he wasn't going to stop his questions. He was committed to his mission—whatever it was—but she wasn't interested in cooperating. So, before he could ask his next question or return to his previous one, she said, "You proposed to her."

"Yes," he said, resuming his place on the couch. "For a case. I had no intention of following through with an actual marriage. That would have been absurd."

That_ would have been absurd_, she thought. _Not the proposing to someone for a case part. _How fascinatingly simple his moral compass was.

Sherlock's tone when he spoke was almost boastful. It would have felt no different than if he'd jerked open his pale blue dressing gown and shown her he was wearing a t-shirt that said "Proud Sociopath and Loving it!" But Molly could see past this. She knew why he was acting this way. He was warning her.

_You may want me, Molly Hooper, but don't ever think you'll have me. I'm wild, untamed. I'm dangerous. No one in their right mind would truly want me._

He was protecting her. Worse, it only made her want him more. She groaned softly to herself and planted her nose back in the book. Maybe he'd go back into his mind palace, and they could forget all about this.

"Did you love Tom?"

Her gaze flew to him, but before she could even gather herself enough to form a reply, Abby began fretting in her seat. Putting down her book, Molly lifted the child up. "What is it, love? You can't be hungry. Are you wet?"

The nappy didn't feel full, but Molly decided to check just to be sure. Taking the blanket, she smoothed it on the couch between her and Sherlock and placed the baby there.

"You're not changing her here, are you?"

"Where would you have me do it?" she asked. "Your bedroom?"

He blanched. "Certainly not."

"Hand me the pink bag over there. No doubt, it has nappies and wipes."

He completed his assigned task and scooted to the far end of the couch. Molly let out a little chuckle as she looked down at a fussy Abby. "Your Uncle Sherlock is afraid of you, sweet girl. Grisly murders or vicious psychopaths? No. Soiled nappies? Oh, dear God, yes."

Abby stopped fussing to stare up at her, as if she were appalled by the very idea. Molly laughed again and began unstrapping the tapes of the nappy. A few minutes later, the baby was all clean, dry, and soothed again.

She turned the baby to face him, but didn't pick her up. "Watch her a moment, will you?" she asked, intent on putting the befouled nappy in the rubbish bin.

Sherlock's jaw dropped open. "You said I didn't have to do anything."

"Either watch her so she doesn't fall off the couch or take this to the trash. Which is it?"

His blue-green eyes flew back and forth between the wrapped white object in her hand and Abby lying between them. Finally, he sighed and said, "I'll take her."

She smiled. "Her name is Abby."

And, with that, she got up and went into the kitchen. She took a minute to wash her hands before returning to the living room. Sherlock was looking down at the baby, who was staring back at him. His hand came down until one, long finger reached out to touch Abby's hand. Tiny fingers stretched and opened before closing around him. Sherlock gasped in wonder.

Molly edged closer to them, not wanting to disturb this stunning scene. She wasn't sure who was more wonderstruck: Sherlock by the baby or the baby by Sherlock. The two beings ogled at each other, all the while continuing their physical connection.

Sherlock's head popped up as she got within his eye line. "Her grip is so strong." His tone belied his amazement.

Molly smiled. "Yes, it is."

He began to pull away. "Don't," Molly said, reaching out to stop his hand. The second her skin touched his, they both froze. There they were. Him holding the baby's hand while she held his. Her gaze caught and held Sherlock's. If he'd been anyone else, she would have given in to the urge to lean over and kiss him. The moment more than called for it. But he was Sherlock, and he wouldn't take that well. So, she released his hand and slipped back.

He opened his mouth as if to protest, but closed it just as quickly, a frown marring his too-handsome face and cupid's bow lips.

"Sher—" She croaked; then coughed to get her voice working properly. "Sherlock, she's your goddaughter. I know you're not entirely comfortable with that, but it's still true. John and Mary aren't here. Just me. Visit with her. I won't mock you."

"I know you won't," he replied. "But, I'm not meant for this. I'm not like you or John or Mary. Not my area." But even as he said this, he didn't release the baby. Instead, he looked back down at her.

"I never took you for a coward, Sherlock Holmes," Molly chided.

One eyebrow arched at her. "I know what you're doing."

She brought her knees up against her chest and wrapped her hands around them. Resting her chin on her knees, she said, "And what is that?"

"You're trying to cajole me into picking her up."

She shrugged. "Don't hold her then. Up to you."

He stared at her, long and hard. "This will never be my area, Molly." _I'm not Tom._ He hadn't said it, but it was still there, between them.

There he was warning her again. "Not my area either," she said, squeezing her knees against her to staunch the pain he was giving her.

"Liar. As I said before, you were meant to be someone's mother."

"The longer I live with you, the longer I think I'm meant to be _your _mother," she said, hoping to throw him off center enough so they could stop talking about this. "You definitely need someone around to keep you from trouble."

"That's why I have John."

She laughed. "So John is your mother? Boy, have the rumors about you two really gotten that one wrong."

He rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the child between them. "She seems to be salivating all over herself. Should we do something about that?"

Molly reached down to rummage through the bag again, coming out with another wipe, which she used to clean Abby's face. Once she was done, Sherlock took his hand back from the baby. "She's so small."

"So were you once I would imagine."

"Yes, I have seen pictures verifying this," he said. "My mother has a particularly offensive one of me in the buff with nothing but a rubber duck covering my wobbly bits. It's Mycroft's favorite." He grimaced. "I shall relish burning it to ashes one day."

_Not until I see it, you won't, _she thought. "Don't you dare. I bet you were a darling boy. Your mother would be heartbroken."

When Abby began to grow restless and whimper, Molly picked her up. After a few moments, the crying became more insistent. She warmed a bottle, wondering if the baby were hungry. However, a few tries at feeding yielded no success. Abby's cries grew louder and angrier.

When her shrieks reached a rather harsh decibel, Sherlock abandoned the couch and collapsed into his usual seat. "Can't you do something?"

"What would you suggest?" Molly called back, at her wit's end. "She's dry and apparently not hungry. I'm all out of ideas. I've even tried the dummy. She keeps spitting it out."

"Should we call Mary and John? Or Mrs. Hudson at least?"

Molly rose from the couch, joggling and shushing the baby in her arms. "John and Mary have only been gone an hour. We're not calling them. As for Mrs. Hudson, I would imagine if she hasn't come up here to investigate a baby screaming in your flat, she's already asleep for the evening."

When the cries continued, Molly added pacing to the joggling and shushing, something which seemed to only make the child calm slightly. She settled Abby against her shoulder, patting her back. Maybe this was gas on her stomach.

Another few minutes of incessant wailing later, Sherlock pleaded, "Do _something_, woman!"

Without thought, Molly opened her mouth and started singing. "I remember when rock was young. Me and Susie had so much fun. Holding hands and skimming stones …" She past the chorus of "Crocodile Rock" and was deep into the "La la's" before Sherlock interrupted.

"What on earth is that caterwauling you're doing?"

"Elton John. 'Crocodile Rock.' 1972," she said before continuing where she left off.

"Cease that this instant. It sounds like a cat was run over by a cab."

The baby started crying again, reminding Molly of the peace that had come from her singing. "It was working though, wasn't it?" she asked and launched into another verse. When she got to the chorus this time, she pulled Abby from her shoulder and stared down at her, dancing them both about gently. The baby seemed to like this when paired in conjunction with the "La la" section of the song.

It was only when Molly finished the song that Abby objected again.

"Well, don't stop now," Sherlock said.

Molly flushed, mortified that she had just done all of this in the presence of Sherlock Holmes. But the child in her arms didn't seem to care about humiliation. Therefore, Molly began again, reclining Abby against her neck and chest patting her little back as she danced them both around the room. Sherlock was watching them both, a peculiar, little smile on his face but Molly didn't care. The baby had ceased crying. That was all that mattered.

Finally, when Molly had started the song for a third time, Abby rewarded her with a healthy burp. This was followed moments later with an unpleasant warm, wet sensation running down Molly's neck, shoulder and chest. A pronounced, fetid odor came seconds later. The little gurgling sound following this wasn't good either. Molly pulled the baby back to find herself the unwelcome recipient of baby vomit.

But from the silence coming from the baby in her arms, Molly knew she'd at last become acquainted with the reason for Abby's distress. Cleaning the baby's face and a few spots on her dress, Molly handed the child off to Sherlock, who protested.

"You can't expect me to—"

"I do, and I can," she said, peeling off her bathrobe ever so carefully. The white and clear puke stain had already spread over her chest and settled beneath her robe and into her pyjama top. The smell was the worst part. It nearly made her want to gag herself. "I have to get cleaned up. She should be fine now."

"Molly, if this child vomits on me—"

"It won't be worst thing that's ever happened to you, will it?" she said, walking into the bathroom without another word. But, before she shut the door, she could have sworn she heard Sherlock say. "'I'll take care of Abby all on my own, Sherlock.' 'You won't be inconvenienced in the slightest, Sherlock.' And now look at me!"

One quick bath later, she realized she had no clean clothes to put on. They were all in her bedroom. She couldn't run through the flat in nothing but a towel, and she was positive asking Sherlock to fetch her something was out of the question. Even if he agreed, she didn't like the idea of him pawing through her undergarments and nightwear.

One of Sherlock's dressing gowns was hanging on the back of the bathroom door, so she slung it on after toweling off. That was when she noticed the low, vibrating cadence coming from the living area. She paused, wondering what was going on out there. She thought she heard the baby crying while she'd been in the tub, but the shrieks had seemed to cease nearly as quickly as they had begun. The sound she heard now was clearly Sherlock's deep voice, but she couldn't really place what was being said. Balling her dirty clothes up, she slipped out of the bathroom and stopped short as she came upon the most hilarious and enthralling sight. Honestly, if she hadn't already been in love with the man, this certainly would have done the trick.

Sherlock Holmes, the man who'd claimed babies weren't his "area," was waltzing around his living room with Abby in his arms … singing.


	7. Mad Dash

**Chapter Seven: Mad Dash**

_Oh, for heaven's sake!_ The second he realized Molly was watching him sing and dance around with Abby, Sherlock stopped. He knew he probably looked absurd to her, and his pride refused to allow him to continue or to give even a hint of his embarrassment. He didn't know why he cared how he looked to her. He only knew he did. Glancing up, he awkwardly held the child out to Molly, mutely demanding she reclaim her troublesome charge.

Thankfully, the charge in particular did not protest this as she was at last soundly asleep.

Molly dropped the bundle of clothes she'd been holding and immediately took the baby in her arms, cuddling Abby close to her chest. But, even though she had the child, Molly's attention was still firmly fixed on him.

Feeling his mortification rising and desperately needing to change the subject, he blurted out, "You're wearing my dressing gown." It was easy to discern that she was naked beneath the deep green material as well as why she was wearing it. Of course, she hadn't taken clothes with her into the bath and a towel was not appropriate attire to be walking about in the flat. Therefore, she had claimed his robe as a covering.

He expected Molly to make this explanation to him, but she didn't. Instead, she blurted out something of her own. "You know the lyrics to 'Crocodile Rock'?"

Unwillingly, he felt a blush heat his cheeks. "You sang it three times in a row. Any dullard could have gotten the words right after that." He turned from her and, going to his chair, tossed himself down into it. "Never fear. I shall be deleting the words from my mind very shortly." _Along with the rest of this infernal night._

"You got the beat of the music wrong," she said.

He darted his head around to glare at her. Why wasn't she letting this go? "I did not. I changed it so it befit a waltz as I was waltzing with her."

"Is that what you were doing?" Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, obviously fighting off a laugh.

"Of course. I wasn't about to dance willy-nilly like you were doing. If one is going to dance, one should at least do it properly," he snapped. "Do you not recognize the waltz when you see it?"

She shrugged and stooped down to place the sleeping baby in her carrier. Settling the child in, Molly rose to face him again. "Sherlock, there's no need to be distressed. I found the sight of you waltzing with Abby to be lovely and sweet."

_Good Lord!_ Turning back to stare at the empty fireplace, he groaned and slammed his head against the back of his chair. There were few words a man wanted to have used to describe his actions. "Lovely" and "sweet" did not make the list. "Abby would not cease crying. I did only what was needed. You were taking entirely too long in your bath."

"You called her Abby."

"That is her name, is it not?" he countered.

Molly went blissfully silent. A moment later, however, she approached his chair and squatting down until she was eye-level with him, she murmured, "I don't know how to waltz."

He surveyed her, long and hard. Sherlock knew what she was about in saying that. He didn't like such obvious ploys to make him feel better, especially when he realized his humiliation was actually beginning to lessen. Yet, even though he knew she was trying to manipulate him, he couldn't help himself from asking, "Why not?"

She shrugged. "Mum died when I was nine. Only had my dad to raise me from then on. It just wasn't something that came up. But you dance beautifully." She smiled as she said this, her brown eyes softening as she looked at him, which caused his stomach to do another one of those uncomfortable flips. He smiled back and sighed, his eyes roving over her face, down the graceful slope of her neck, past the delicate arch of her exposed clavicle, and down to the light swell of her breasts.

When he realized he was staring and what exactly he was staring at, he curtly looked away from her, fisting his hands around the arms of his chair. "Get dressed," he said. "John and Mary will be back soon. You wouldn't want them to see you like … that."

"Oh … Oh, yes, of course."

He felt the air stir as she shot to her feet and heard the light footsteps as she stumbled back. "Will you—"

"Yes," he interrupted, knowing she was asking if he would watch Abby while she dressed. At this point, he would have agreed to get her gone.

"Thanks," she said.

From the scrambled sound of her feet going upstairs, he could tell she'd left. Yet, the smell of her soap remained. Lavender mixed with sandalwood and a faint hint of citrus. It made him feel giddy and left his heart hammering in his chest. _What is happening to me?_ He hadn't felt this off since all those years ago when he'd nearly overdosed. When he couldn't stand the scent anymore, he fled to the kitchen to make himself another cup of tea. He didn't really want it, but it was better than just sitting there inhaling insanity.

He needed a case. Badly. As it was, his brain was unmistakably beginning to feel the effects of being underused as his thoughts were wildly swinging in areas where they did not tread and his body was reacting in strange ways. He was also clearly spending too much time with Molly. He often enjoyed their time together, but these interactions usually took place in a proper setting such as the morgue or in her lab. Having her in his flat all the time was causing the introduction of feelings he did not normally allow himself to associate with. _Oh, what chaos boredom could wrought!_ He would rather be shooting up the wall again than dealing with this nonsense.

Why had John had to move out and get married? If he were here, none of this would have occurred. Sure, Sherlock knew Mary was a wonderful woman and all, but the couple could have remained dating perpetually. All this getting married and having babies nonsense undoubtedly had damaging effects to his psyche.

His phone went off again. Sherlock pulled it from his pocket and read the text he'd just received from Mycroft.

_How is the babysitting coming along? I bet it's quite cozy with just the three of you in there, brother dear. Got any familial stirrings for your goldfish yet?_

Gritting his teeth, Sherlock once again lamented the fact that he had not been an only child. He typed his own message in, feeling better once he pressed "send."

_I don't know, brother dear. Got Moriarty yet?_

As they both knew the answer to that, Sherlock smirked as he waited for the reply. While Mycroft was visibly relieved to have his younger brother not being sent off on a mission that was expected to get him killed, the older Holmes was less than pleased that a man he had assured his superiors was dead had flashed his face all over the greater part of the U.K. The embarrassment suffered from this was still evident on his face whenever Sherlock saw him. The phone vibrated again just as the kettle began to sound.

_That's your job, isn't it? However, it looks as though you are too busy with other issues waltzing into your life._

"Aha!" Sherlock yelled.

As suspected, Mycroft's pride had caused him to tip his hand. Sherlock left his tea mid-preparation, intent on searching the flat for video or listening devices. Obviously, Mycroft had increased surveillance on the building and its surrounding area, but they had agreed to nothing placed in the actual flat. Of course, Mycroft—being Mycroft—would do this anyway as he was notoriously nosy when it came to Sherlock's doings. Thus with this in mind, as well as the proof in his insinuation from the last text, Sherlock knew there were devices afoot in his flat and he was intent on finding them. It wasn't a case by any means, but it was better than dealing with incessant thoughts of Molly.

_Anything_ was better than that.

—**RE—**

Molly returned to the living room to find Sherlock scaling the large bookcase on the right side of the fireplace, tossing books randomly over his shoulder, and the screech of the kettle boiling in the kitchen.

Obviously, something had happened. Thankfully, Abby had managed to sleep through it.

"What are you doing?" Molly asked as she went into the kitchen to retrieve the kettle from the stove. Once it was silenced, she returned to the living room. "Well?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock jumped down and then proceeded to scale the other bookcase, muttering something about Mycroft as he went. His phone, which had been placed on the arm of his chair, sounded.

"Read it," he said, tossing more books over his shoulder.

Molly grabbed the phone. "It's from Mycroft."

"I know that. Read it."

"It says, 'You'll never find it.'" She frowned. "Find what? Is this about Moriarty?"

"No."

She exhaled in relief. "Then what?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock jumped down from the second bookcase and started towards the desk, rifling through the papers gathered there. "No," he grumbled after a bit, "too obvious." He turned and peered about the room with a dubious expression. "Aha!" And, with that, he darted towards the kitchen.

Molly leapt out of his way as he started tearing the kitchen apart. Fearing the baby would wake at any moment, she said, "Sherlock, what are you looking for? Stop all this racket. You're going to disturb Abby."

He froze, turning to look at her. "We weren't in here. We were out there. So, it must be in the living room. But where would he put it? It's not in any of his usual spots. He's gone the extra mile this time. Is it just sight or can he hear, too?"

Had Sherlock gone mad? She'd only been gone a few minutes, but the man before her had clearly gone 'round the bend or something. Still, this was Sherlock. No matter how strange or outlandish his actions seemed, there was always a reasonable explanation.

"Sherlock, who are you talking about? He who? Mycroft?"

"Of course, Mycroft. Who else?" he snapped, walking around her back into the living room.

He fiddled around the television, messing with the cables and muttering to himself as he went. When he didn't find what he was looking for there, he moved on to crawling around on the floor inspecting where the floor met the wall. "I will find it, Mike," he yelled.

_Mike? Who's Mike?_ Meanwhile, Sherlock waited on all fours, staring blankly into the distance for a while as though he were waiting for something. When whatever he wanted didn't appear, he grunted and went back to searching.

Making his way to the couch, he muttered, "I bet he did it the last time he came over for tea. I knew he wasn't that interested in my experiments."

Molly stepped around him long enough to claim the baby carrier, holding is away from him. Abby must have been exhausted as she barely moved during all of this. Sherlock's head suddenly popped up. "Did he text again?" he asked.

"No," she said, realizing she was still holding Sherlock's phone. She set the baby carrier down in John's chair, made sure it was secure, and walked over to the consulting detective who had moved on to patting on the walls. At times like this, she wondered what it was exactly that kept her so firmly in love with him. He was brilliant and gorgeous to be sure, but also more than a little mad. There were times she'd found herself ridiculously attracted to the insane streak in him—more so that than his intelligence or looks—but now was not one of those times. "Do you want your phone?"

"Not now," he said, pressing his ear against the wall. "Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Molly observed all of this with a keen eye. There was an explanation. She was sure of it. Whatever it was, Mycroft was at the end of it. Only his brother could get this kind of reaction from Sherlock. He'd been fine before she'd gone up to change. Looking down at the phone in her hand, she looked through the messages he'd received from before.

_That's your job, isn't it? However, it looks as though you are too busy with other issues waltzing into your life._

As that message as well as Sherlock's message to Mycroft gave her no further insight, she moved on to the one Mycroft had initially sent.

_How is the babysitting coming along? I bet it's quite cozy with just the three of you in there, brother dear. Got any familial stirrings for your goldfish yet?_

_Familial stirrings? Goldfish?_ It all came snapping into place in Molly's head. Mycroft was taunting his little brother with how he'd been spending his evening. _Is that what I am to them?_ She thought. _A goldfish? What does that even mean?_

Sherlock pushed away from the wall abruptly, mumbling to himself as he went. All she was able to catch were the words "test" and "I'll show him cozy." Before she could open her mouth to confront him, Sherlock abruptly turned to stare at her, hard. Then, just as abruptly, he stalked up to Molly and, grabbing her by the shoulders, pulled her in close.

"Sherlock, why—"

"Molly," he said, gazing down at her, "forgive me."

Then, without another word, Sherlock Holmes kissed her.

* * *

**A/N: More on the way … eventually.**


End file.
